


Those Who Remain

by oneoneseven



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort/Angst, F/F, Femslash, Gen, POV First Person, Post-Mockingjay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 38,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneseven/pseuds/oneoneseven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: They won - or so people like to tell them. Everyone just happened to leave the important part out: what happens afterwards. When Johanna watches Katniss launch an arrow through Peeta's heart, she wonders who exactly the real victors are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Minor changes to canon have been made (other than the most obvious one): Johanna manages to go into battle with Katniss and the rest, enough to see her kill Peeta midway and later Coin. I did the same (though it's subtle and almost unnoticeable) in my other Joniss piece, Fire In My Veins. This makes it a lot easier for Johanna to narrate and voice her thoughts about Katniss, being in a better position than if she stayed in District 13. 
> 
> Without further ado, here we go again!

He doesn’t remember her – not one bit. I know this by the look in his eyes. He doesn’t hide his contempt, his disdain towards her, and even though this is venom-induced, it is a stunning display; an act so convincing I tense at his snarl and she has to pull herself away from him.

Against the Capitol, she is a warrior, a mountain. She is insurmountable in the face of war and she moves and acts as if she were forged from fire. But in front of Peeta, when he is like this, she seems like nothing at all, just battered in the rain and by his threats. She is a flame long dead before him.

For one moment it is just the three of us – she and him, going back and forth, and me, watching it all unfold. I can do nothing because he is not my lover to kill. They belong to each other, ridding me of responsibility – but it doesn’t make it easy to witness. I watch her raise her bow and arrow, taking aim while biting down hard on her lower lip that hasn’t stopped quivering since he vowed to take her life, showing that the Capitol, in one swift stroke, has rewritten her entire existence in his life.

My mouth twists into a grimace of its own accord. _Fuck the Capitol._

She wavers at the last second; I can see it in her eyes. For a moment I think she is going to let him kill her and for a moment I think I have to step in, but then she releases the arrow and it finds its place in Peeta’s chest with a loud _thwack_. He stumbles from the impact, from the pain, and falls to his knees. His eyes are wide – not with shock at her actions but with _rage_ – and he opens his mouth to say something, but it never happens because he has been dead the moment the Capitol laid its hands on him.

He falls face flat into the mud and now it is just she and I. Her face is unreadable, but underneath – because I know what grief does – there is a storm that rages.

It is the storm that spurs her on when nothing else can.

And so I watch Katniss Everdeen evolve in the fires of war. I can’t tear my eyes from her.

I find myself still looking at her long after she shoots Coin in the face with an arrow, and I wonder how she finds it in herself to _live_.


	2. The Mockingjay's Case

It takes us a while to gain access to the one person left in charge of 13. After Coin’s bad fall with an arrow in her eyeball, Katniss was perpetually put under lockdown. The words _dangerous_ and _unstable_ are among the few things people are calling her now, labeling her as if it matters now – as if it will _ever_ matter in the days to come.

In the old office of President Snow, the vice-president sits like he owns the place. Haymitch launches into his negotiation with the stone-faced man who is dressed in a suit – pristine, unruffled and untouched by the war. I hate him just for the way he looks and I hate him for the way he doesn’t look at Haymitch when the man talks.

“And besides,” Haymitch straightens his back, standing upright before the vice-president, “she’s lost _everything_ in the war –”

“So has everyone else. But no one lashed out and shot our President dead in the eye on impulse,” the vice-president’s voice takes on an edge. “It is rebellion. Treason against all that we stand for. Ironic, if you think about it.”

 _Fucking bastard knows how to talk like someone from the Capitol._ I keep a hand on my axe.

“And she’s stood for everything you wanted her to.” Haymitch drops his voice into a low growl, and I can barely hear his words next.

I don’t know what he says, but I see that it is making an effect on the vice-president. The stone-face crumbles, leaving him pale. I notice his hand, resting on the tabletop, curling into a tight fist. His other hand goes up to his collar to tug – more than once – until Haymitch finishes and takes a step back.

“Well then.” Haymitch tilts his head sideways. “I’ve made my case. Consider it all carefully, Mr. President.” The venom in his voice does not escape me and I look up from my lap.

The vice-president looks sick. He swallows and takes effort to do so and I think he’s going to puke when he opens his mouth, but he ends up speaking – his voice lacking the substance from before.

“We…recognize the sacrifices of Miss Everdeen in her…acts of service,” he says, leaning away from the table as if ready to give up his post. “We acknowledge her bravery…we acknowledge her selflessness. The death of President Coin,” he holds onto the edge of the table, seemingly for support, “was merely – merely an unfortunate casualty. Such is –” He brings a hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Such is the nature of war.”

“Unfortunately so. My deepest condolences.” Haymitch looks over his shoulder and nods to us – Gale, Katniss and I. He turns back to the vice-president. “Perhaps, Mr. President, we’ll manage to move on from this someday. But it’s highly unlikely,” he says, turning and heading for the door, “that we'll forget.”


	3. The Need For A Fire

When the train begins to move, I find a spot by the window. I want to watch the Capitol slip away from view, burning and smoldering in the wake of the Mockingjay, of the rebellion. I can still see the fires in the distance, reaching out towards the open sky. Smoke licks at the stars and engulfs the moon, its hunger completing the ruination of the Capitol.

 _Good, let it burn._ I stare and stare, letting the wind splash against my face, until my eyes grow sore and the burning city is nothing more than a blip in the distance, a tiny firefly living out its last moments in a new world. 

Long after the city disappears from view and we are hurtling back home, I remain by the window. I continue to search for something out _there_ , all too aware of the nagging feeling at the back of my mind and at the top of my spine. I end up making scratches on the mahogany frame of the open window, resenting the apparent lack of satisfaction.

Yes, that's it. I'm not reacting the way I'm supposed to. There's no pomp, no celebration to end off the end of an era. No one bothers, not here, not anywhere else. And it escapes me ceaselessly. Why doesn't it come? Why don't I feel it? I've dreamed about it, so many times. The end is supposed to feel like so much more.

The thrill, the exhilaration of being a _victor_ \- none of it comes to me in the train. When I find nothing I am looking for, my fingernails dig deep against the wood and skin burns from friction. In the dark of night, in the silence of newly acquired liberation, I find myself longing for a fire.

Then the smoke and clouds clear, flitting away into the distance, and it is like we are resurfacing in a whole new universe. The moon showers its light on the passing districts, cleansing and healing.

It is foolish, more foolish than I’ve ever let myself become, but I stretch out a hand into the open, hoping to collect some of that moonshine for myself as well. 


	4. Johanna's Impossible Things

Later that night, I find her standing at the doorway, watching me in the middle of a mess.

What is it called? Oh, yes – the vice-president calls it _lashing out_.

I should be embarrassed, considering the state of my occupancy – glass is scattered across the floor and the carpet is soaked with wasted brandy – but I am not. All I find is a disquieting absence of something abstract.

She joins me in silence and I make a game out of hurling towards the wall expensive bottles of perfume  – just _because_ they belong to the Capitol – and an assortment of other things that make people just like one of those colored _fucks._ I couple my target practice with the most creative combination of expletives I can think of until my voice is worn out; a tire dragged along the gravel road for too long.

I am acutely aware that this _lashing out_ makes no difference to anyone else, not even Katniss, but it gives me something to do other than wait around. I reach for the final item, the chair, left in here that I haven’t already obliterated, already thinking of the next room I am going to waste before we arrive at our destination, when she places her hand on top of mine and stops me. Her touch burns like a real flame, but it might just be my imagination.

“It only makes you want more,” she says.

In this moment I hate her, because she has _no right_ to say that to me. Here she is, carrying the deaths of Peeta, of Prim and a thousand others on her shoulders, and all she can think of doing is to give me a lecture on how to deal with myself?

“Hypocrite,” I grind out. I grab her by the collar, pull her up and pin her against the wall. “Fight me. Fucking _fight me_! You want this. You _want this_!” It is a real plea, a desperate attempt to find an inferno to drown myself in – and she is the perfect candidate. After all, she is the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay, the one who hands out promises of acid, flame and oblivion – she is exactly what I need; she's made of the stuff. 

But more than anything, in this moment, she's not letting me have it.

I continue to scream in her face, sinking my nails into her skin and nearly tearing open the top of her shirt there and then, trying to goad her into lashing out, to give me something else to fight _because I want to and you want to why can't you understand I can't sit still Katniss fucking do something!_

Then Katniss does the impossible – she refuses.

All she does is reach deep into her pockets, fishing for something calmly as if I am not currently drawing blood from her skin in this moment, and pulls out a handful of pine leaves and offers them to me.

I consider the curious case of the Girl on Fire and wonder how she manages to do the impossible – especially when I least expect it.


	5. What Comes Next

The scent of the pine leaves - the scent of home - fills the air between us.

I dab at the scratches near her neck and collarbone, following the trail of blood with care. I am not a gentle person – no, quite the opposite – but I am still capable of remorse. I look at her and notice what her eyes are following – my hand and the cotton piece that cleans her. It’s almost as if she’s puzzled at the concept of healing – if so, I don’t blame her for feeling this way. Eventually, her eyes finish their unhurried journey and flick upwards, back at me.

It seems like a silent cue: _time for conversation._

“Does it hurt?” I ask, though I know it’s stupid. She and I have been through worse horrors than little scratches. And to her, the question might mean a million other things, half of them having to do with Peeta. Or Prim. Or everything in between. I regret asking it at the end of a long, stretched out second.

Instead of ignoring the query, she decides to humor me instead. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should give it another go.” She sounds as if she's giving a valid suggestion. Like Peeta from before, I ask myself: real or not real?

“I really would, you know.” I hold my hand still and let out a sigh. “Why'd you even come by, Katniss?”

“You woke me with your screams,” she says quite simply. “I thought you were having a nightmare.”

“You’d be able to tell the difference,” I quip and resume wiping away the blood on her skin, bright red against her pale exterior. “And you don’t fool me. You haven’t slept since District 13.”

“I don’t like to admit it.”

“But in a way, you kind of are now.” I finish the job and toss the damp cotton piece away. “Do you ever wonder?” I pick at my nails, digging out clumps of dried blood – her blood, I muse with a measure of morbid fascination: _such a human thing to see from the indestructible soldier._  “What we’ll do next.”

“No,” she says. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“You’ve been thinking about Peeta,” I dare to look her square in the eyes, “haven’t you? You’re feeling guilty.”

I think I see a hint of rage flicker across her features. A faint echo of what she used to be. And then, like the little firefly that was the Capitol in the distance, the fire flickers and dissipates.

“Don't get off at 7 tomorrow. You should stay in 12 for a little while with us,” she says, pretending I never mentioned Peeta. “We’ll have plenty of time to spar.”

“To the death?” I intend for it to sound teasing, but it comes out too earnest, too serious. I feel a tremble and realize it comes from my own body.

“If that’s what you want,” she offers, absently brushing a thumb over the nail scratches I’d given her. “If it’s what you need.”

For a moment, she sounds like herself, the one who promises firestorms and the one who delivers all that she vows to give. For a moment, I think she actually does want to kill me – or maybe she intends for me to kill _her_.

“I’m not entirely sure what I need,” I admit. “I’m fucked, Katniss. I don’t know much else.”

Katniss drops the pine leaves into my palm and closes her hand around mine.

“It’s fine. We’ve been through hell. This is just the next level.”


	6. Victor's Spoils

I consider refusing her offer at first, but I end up watching District 7 shrinking away from me in the last carriage. I make excuses for myself in my head. Beneath the hum of the train, I hear a deafening silence – one that reaches out, beyond this vehicle, beyond the earth. 

I know what it is. It is the absence of something abstract.

This is the Capitol’s last parting gift to me. The victor's spoils.

_Nothing._


	7. Katniss Wakes

I wake up – or stir out of my staring contest with the wall – to screams coming from the next room. Her voice is muffled but urgent; I can easily make out what she’s saying: _Peeta. Prim. Finnick._ I slide the cabin door open and she is there, thrashing and writhing about. Again and again, she names them all, between her gasps and sobs. It threatens to have me undone, the thought of Finnick. I fight the increasing urge to turn around and leave, maybe find a carriage far enough for me to escape her screams.

"Oh God, please..."

It occurs to me that I have never heard her sound so weak before. It sickens me, but it compels me to do something to make it stop.

I move to sit down on the bed beside her quaking form. The attempt to stir her awake fails, with me calling her name and telling her to wake up. I hold her face in my hands and pat her lightly on the cheek, but she can't open her eyes, can't resurface. Either she can’t... or she doesn’t want to. I’m not sure.

I do the only thing I can think of. I hold her down, close to me, locking her in a tight embrace. I’m not sure who it is I’m protecting – me or her – but it seems to work. The rattling in her body slows until it is no more, and I feel her relax.

Then she breathes out a word. A name.

My name.

“Johanna?”

I look down at her and she is looking at me with her half-closed eyes, eyebrows creasing and mouth curling into a frown like she doesn’t understand me or why I’m here. She brings her bleeding hand to my face and touches my cheek as if to check if I’m real. I should be disgusted at the blood on my face but I’m not, and I watch the recognition in her eyes unfold. I feel her hand on the back of my neck, sliding down to hold onto my shoulder. There, I feel the slight change in pressure.

“Real or not real?” she whispers.

I brush the hair and sweat from her brow. _What a stupid question._

“More real than your nightmares.”

_Just another level of hell._

-

We pull into District 12 not long after. It feels like a victory tour, only not quite. Only there’s nothing victorious about returning to a place that doesn’t look like _anything_. People are walking back and forth but they don’t go anywhere, like they just acknowledge the space but not what it means to them. An old woman sits against a torn down house, holding herself as she sleeps, still keeping vigil in guarding what she has left. An emaciated boy sits by her side, holding a wooden sword, guarding _her_.

Haymitch’s words come back to me. _It’s highly unlikely that we’ll forget._ All of it is just a large, hollow portrait of home, painted by the Capitol, signed by the Capitol and wrapped up nicely.

Our reward for making it out alive.

The walk further into District 12 depresses me further, if that’s even possible. There should be some sense of organization, some sense of it being a _town_ , but everything is scattered across the barren land like a mess a child makes after he’s done with his toys. Haymitch tells me that this is supposed to be the merchant’s section but it now resembles a mass of bricks more than anything, everything spilling over into each other. There’s no recognition between houses, just space and soot and dust.

“There’s not much of a difference from before,” Katniss assures me. It occurs to me only later that this is the first time she’s seen her home since the war began.

It is morning by the time we return to the Victors’ Village in District 12. People come up to us and mostly thank Katniss, pulling at her clothes and grabbing her hands in an attempt to shake them – or tear them off, depending on the type of person we encounter. All of them remember Katniss and Gale. Even Haymitch.

I watch with thinly veiled interest as the celebration of heroes begin, our walk accompanied by the disjointed beat of applause and the choruses calling out their names. Then someone sings a song – a song I barely manage to grasp – and soon everyone joins in, cracked voices, rusted with time and suffering and starvation and everything else the Capitol showered upon them. Its tune is not completely indistinguishable, and it makes me pause in my tracks.

It reminds me of the pine leaves in my pocket for some reason, and I strain my ears to make out the words.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away… a cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray… Forget your woes and let your troubles lay… And when it’s morning again, they’ll wash away._

I search ahead for Katniss and she is there, standing just a few feet away, listening to them as I am. The look on her face is twisted with grief and she closes her eyes – remembering. Then the first rays of the morning fall on the side of her face, lighting her up and I think to myself – oh, she looks like she’s burning. A being of _fire_ – that’s what she is. But the fire is for herself, to keep herself hot and alive as she stands in the middle of a dead place. She reacts to the song in a way I can only describe as being in mourning.

 _Here it’s safe and here it’s warm –_ I commit the lyrics to memory as I walk towards her, dragging my feet along the dirt path – _and here the daisies guard you from every harm…_

I lift her chin with one finger and she looks at me as if she is seeing something far away, like I’m not there or like I’m invisible. Her stare is ashen, like this is the last place she wants to be, and I call her name.

“Katniss.”

_And here, your dreams are sweet._

Something behind her eyes breathes, flickers with signs of life. Her name does something to her – as if she hasn’t heard it in a while. As if she’s let the Mockingjay take over and it is only until now that she remembers.

She sees me. And then she sees them, the people singing this anthem – for her. For everything she’s done. The song of the Mockingjay, I call it. They may have a name for it already, but the title I choose seems a better fit. Or perhaps a better sounding one – the song of Katniss.

_And tomorrow brings them true._

Then she goes to them, the people who know her, and I watch the Girl on Fire come back to life.

I sink my hand into my pocket and feel the leaves, the song of Katniss ringing in my head long after the sun drowns and the moon resumes the healing with its silvery light. 

_Here is the place where I love you._


	8. All That's Left

Gale invites me over for a drink one night – he takes one of the houses in the Victors’ Village, beside Haymitch’s. I’m not sure why, but I oblige at the thought of being able to drink stuff that will sear and burn and fester on the inside until I hurl and rinse and repeat. The thought of it calls to me and I find myself sitting in the dining room with Gale, him looking as fresh as ever – and I say this with a note of sarcasm. He is already drunk by the time I reach him, and I lose my appetite for the alcohol quickly. 

He looks at me, eyes bright with electricity. “Drink,” he pushes an entire bottle towards me and it comes sliding across the table. I stop it from falling off the side of the table, but I don’t open it. He sees my lack of participation. “Dammit,” he slurs, pinching the bridge of his nose – as if _I’m_ the one he should be disappointed in. “What did I call you _here_ for?”

“Well, you started without me.” I spin the bottle slowly on the tabletop. “Look at yourself, Gale. You can throw me off alcohol from a mile away.”

“Fuck your shit, Johanna…” Gale lets go of his drink and rubs his face vigorously with both hands. “I didn’t ask for this. You know?” He squints at me. “Turn off the light. The fuck is the light on for?”

“Idiot. You should’ve asked Haymitch to come instead. At least he'll have a laugh at your expense.” I rise from the chair and walk over to flip the switch. Shadows bathe the room and his silhouette relaxes.

Gale chuckles and makes a _psh_ sound. “Like he would. He’s too busy helping…helping Katniss get better.”

I stay by the entrance to the dining room, leaning against the doorframe. He waves at me for my attention, though I am already looking at him.

“You know what’s the thing about Catnip? Huh?” He gets to his feet and I think he is lifting the weight of his burdens along too. He staggers, finding balance, before trying to walk around the dining table. He continues, “There’s this _thing_ , you know…what she does to a person. Can’t even…can’t even put a finger on it. She can _act,_ is what it is. Yeah.”

“Uh, Capitol? Hunger Games? Hello?” I am conversing with a drunkard and it is getting me nowhere, but I know he needs a friend. It doesn’t mean I should be nice, of course. That’s not who I am. “She’s been acting the whole way with Peeta.”

 _Right up until she actually fell in love with him, of course._ I consider saying this, but I decide I don't want to get clobbered to death with a wine bottle.

“Peeta,” Gale grinds out the name like it is something to be loathed. “No. I’m not talking…about him. I’m talking about _her_ …how she acts around – around _me_." 

Then something shifts in the air, and I know I am not just talking to a man with a broken heart, defeated in love by another man long dead. He refers to something else, something that will always get in the way of his living.

_Guilt. Prim. Katniss._

“She acts like it doesn’t – _bother_ her.” Gale presses himself against the wall, forcing himself to his feet. “But I know.” He chuckles to himself. “I know her more than…anyone. She’s angry. She’s fucking _pissed_. ‘Cause…’cause you see…” He raises a shaky hand, one finger pointing at nothing in particular. “You see? Prim…is dead.”

He turns his head towards me, features contorted with shadows cast from the candlelight and the direction it’s coming from. He points to himself now and mouths silent words: _My fault._ Then he looks away, fixes his stare on the far side of the room again. I can think of nothing to say, so I don’t. I just stay in this room with him, because he needs it. He needs a witness to his downfall and perhaps – perhaps he means for me to tell Katniss.

“I’m goin’.” He says it like it’s a death sentence. “I gotta go, Johanna. You understand…don’t you?”

“Cowardice?” I shrug. “Maybe.”

“ _No_. It’s everything.” He lets out a hiccup, but it comes across more as a sob. “She won’t even look at me. And sometimes – sometimes I can’t even look at myself. I did this.” He stares down at his hands. “I did this to her. _I did this! I should be the dead one!_ ”

Then I see it, in my mind’s eye. Gale holds the dead body of Primrose Everdeen, and it gets in the way of his living. He holds the broken heart of the girl he loves, and it gets in the way of his living. He doesn’t even need alcohol to make him admit it – it just makes it easier for him to talk about it.

He does leave, in the end. Later, much later, after he shakes the alcohol from his system and stops crying. I watch him go, out the front door, after he tells me where he’s going. _District 2. I’m going to the army. It’s all I know now. How to fight._

Then he stops, halfway down the porch, and he turns back to me.

“Johanna, promise me something.”

From where I’m standing, he looks renewed for some reason, under the stars. Maybe the alcohol worked better than it should have. Maybe. I wonder why I was the one to witness this, like how I witnessed Katniss in the train that night. I wonder why it’s me, because – don’t _I_ get a right to have my own breakdown as well? Don’t I need to have my own nightmares and have someone come in and hold me until it’s over?

“It’s not fair to you, because you’ve done this for too long…but please take care of Catnip for me.”

As he leaves, I know he’s right. I _have_ done this for too long – a stretched out walk in the desert for longer than anyone deserves. Gale’s words return: _I should be the dead one._

Maybe that’s why.

Maybe I’ve got nothing left to mourn, and that gives me immunity from the desolation of Katniss Everdeen.

-

“Gale’s gone.” I tell her with no hesitation. It’s what he would have wanted, at least. To let her know what he was like in his last moment. She needs to know. “Left for District 2.”

She looks up at me, accusation in her dark eyes. “Why?”

“You know why. He’s guilty about Prim.”

Katniss broods. I sit down beside her, on the bed, watching her think. I wonder what she sounds like in her head. Angry? Angry. Maybe she’s angry. It’s impossible to see through the wall she’s erected, though – not since Prim, not since Peeta. And now, not since Gale.

We sit like this for a long time – her thinking and me wondering about her. She is a mystery, a question to the world, and there is simply no answer that is enough to encompass everything she has shown herself to be so far. The night draws on, longer than it should, until she notices me again.

Three victors in the Village left – all we have of each other. The rest of the space is filled with what we carried back from the Capitol, from District 13. The victors’ spoils.

“Does it hurt?” I ask her.

She nods, unable to meet my gaze.

“Every time.”

We connect by these words, and I think I am finally beginning to know her.


	9. The Build-Up, Part 1

Because it’s the logical thing to do, Katniss and I start to help the rebuilding of District 12. We begin in the merchant section, because it’s the closest to the Victors’ Village and because Katniss isn’t ready to return to the Seam yet, where she grew up. I fight down my intense desire to see her childhood home – though it probably looks nothing like what it was – and make myself useful, laying down brick after brick to rebuild a place I know is just as important to her: the bakery.

I know it’s the bakery because, despite what Katniss had previously thought, Peeta’s father survived the bombing and he stands at the foot of the work in progress, his bakery, and does most of the heavy lifting. I catch Katniss staring at Mr. Mellark for most of the time that we are there and it’s easy to guess what she’s seeing when she sees the blonde man striding back and forth, carrying his kind words with him everywhere and helping anyone who needs assistance.

She looks at him for a long time until she just drops what she’s doing and goes over to him. I am loath to let her go on her own, but I barely know the man, so I just watch from where I am, crouched in between the others. Katniss speaks to Mr. Mellark with little to no emotion and I figure she must be holding herself back. I know she is speaking about Peeta because the older man’s face just shatters halfway through the conversation and he excuses himself – still so kind, even in his own grief and suffering – leaving Katniss to her own devices. But she doesn’t move to return to my side, or do _anything_. She’s just standing there, staring into space, and I wonder for a moment if this is the moment she snaps.

Nothing comes. So I go to her, and pull her out of her disarray.

“I think I just destroyed him,” Katniss says, resuming conversation as if it’s the most normal thing to do. She turns, looks over her shoulder at the retreating figure of Mr. Mellark and then turns back to me. “Didn’t I?”

“He needed to know.”

“But…not from Peeta’s killer.”

For one reason or another, I am lost for words, and Katniss disappears from my side, retreating further into District 12. But she is a magnet, a force that draws me in, and I follow her until I can’t see her anymore, stopping in the middle of a place I think is the Seam. Here, my feet touch the grass and trees give shelter as temporary homes to the stragglers. It feels more like home than anything, but the only drawback is that I don’t know where Katniss is, and Katniss knows this place better than I do.

I’m fucking lost.

“Need help, miss?” someone asks from behind. And what an odd question it is, because – well, this entire district needs help. They’re recovering from a bombing attack, rebuilding despite the odds and the stranger asks _me_ if _I_ need _help_?

“No,” I say, turning to find myself facing an old, emaciated woman. “No, I’m just…walking around.”

“If you’re looking for the girl, she went into the woods.” The woman points a bony finger to the north, behind me. “She could use a friend.”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m not sure how this woman can still be smiling despite the touch of chaos all around her.

“I watched you, you know,” the old woman adds, and my body tenses. “In your Games. Pretty solid acting.”

I’m not sure if she is aware that a war has just passed; she seems so at ease. “Thanks, I think,” I say a little shakily. It is then that I notice the bleeding in her knee and I nearly find myself overreacting there and then. “And, um – lady? You should probably get home. Your, uh…your knee is bleeding.”

The bony woman looks down at said knee, and then cackles. “Oh, it’s quite alright, dear. Thank you. No one really pays attention to an old woman like me – and call me Greasy Sae.”

 _Come again?_ “How about…just Sae?”

“ _Greasy_ Sae. It’s a _title_.”

I laugh, despite the odd conversation we’re having, and leave soon after she waves goodbye.

-

If I _ever_ thought the Seam and the entirety of District 12 was confusing and impossible to navigate, the woods are the next level after _impossible_. The only way I manage to mark my route and stop myself from going in circles is in identifying the singed trees in the forest, because no two things burn the same way, and I soon reach a part of the forest that the Capitol never touched.

Green and bursting with an overwhelming scent of pine that overtakes the smell of ash and smoke, this part of the forest draws me in quite easily. By the time I hit my twentieth minute away from the Seam, I am aware that Katniss might not actually be here anymore. A crazed thought leads me to think that I might end up walking back into District 13, but then I see her, standing out amongst the trees, but looking like she _belongs_.

“We share a love for this place,” I say, and she jerks as if struck, as if it’s _unthinkable_ that Johanna Mason would follow after her and actually _find_ her. “Oh, please. You think I’m just going to sit around and wait in the middle of town for you?” I smirk. “No one makes me wait. Not even you.”

“I don’t love this place,” she says quickly. “Not really. It’s different now.”

“Yeah, like _half_ the woods are burnt to the ground.” I sidle up to her. “But it feels like home for me.”

“Home,” Katniss repeats, frowning. “Hell if I know what that is anymore.”

“Hey.” I give her a meaningful look. “That’s my line.”

“Yeah? Well, we can share.”

I grunt in acknowledgement.

The sharing of the spoils of war.

-

“We should tell each other how we feel,” I say as we hang high up on a tree, watching dusk approach in the distance. “You know, therapy. Or whatever the fuck it is.”

Katniss wrinkles her nose at my suggestion. “That’s a stupid idea. Therapy doesn’t work.”

“Well, I don’t know. It might. I had a therapist once, back in 7. It was after my Games, and I was messed as shit.” I shift myself into a more comfortable position. “I ended up fucking him every week.”

Katniss stares at me blankly. “We’re not having sex.”

“Wait, what?” Now I’m laughing. “Oh God, Katniss. You’re killing me.” _Sex? With her?_ I’m laughing not because she thinks of it, but because I’m not sure why I find the idea more tempting than anything else. Maybe it’s because of the fact that we’re in the middle of a forest with no one else around. Or maybe it’s because I miss my therapist.

Maybe I’m just too fucked up.

Katniss looks away. “We’re not talking about feelings either. It comes when it comes, Johanna.”

“Inuenndo,” I can’t resist and I giggle to myself. At her glare, I just grin – with too much teeth. “Sorry. I’m just – sorry.” I can’t stop turning the idea over and over in my head.

“You’re insane,” she says to me quietly, without fire in her voice.

“Yeah?” I am still grinning at her. “Well, we can share.”

-

“Hey,” I call out to her, getting drowsier as the sky grows darker. “You promised me a fight. To the death.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Liar.” I chuckle. “Oh, I know. It’s because you thought about therapy. You’re considering it. Therapy’s better than getting into a fistfight.” I know I need to stop referencing that I _fucked someone in the place of actual therapy_ , but my self-control is dipping the longer I stay out here with her.

“If we fought, I’d use my bow.” Katniss eyes me with a glint in her eye, though the rest of her face is void of emotion. “You’d die in a second.”

“See, that’s no fun. There's no _build-up_. Compared to…” I trail off. “Never mind. I think all the therapists in your town are dead anyway.”

She groans.


	10. The Build-Up, Part 2

The bakery is almost finished. It gets me thinking that maybe Katniss’ presence is speeding up the recovery process, simply because of who she is and what she means to these people. She doesn’t notice it, of course, because all she does is stare at the half-finished building like it’s the most captivating thing in District 12. Greasy Sae pops by some time later, in the middle of the afternoon, to give us some soup. She insists it’s beef, for some reason. I don’t begin to try and ask her where she gets the food from and settle for complimenting her efforts and thanking her; Katniss does the same.

The soup and whatever’s inside – they taste better than they look. I hold the wooden bowl, emptied of its contents, in my hand, grateful for the wonder – and oddity – that is Greasy Sae.

“She seems to like you,” Katniss says.

I glance at her. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Katniss raises an eyebrow at me and looks away, scoffing. "You don't make great first impressions."

I resist the desire to kick her in the shin. "You're one to talk, sweetie."

Katniss murmurs something under her breath, rolling her eyes.

“You can be _so like Haymitch_ sometimes,” I say darkly. “Speaking of Haymitch, where’s he been?”

“Drowning himself in booze.” She stops there and takes the bowl from my hands, walking off under the premise of returning them to Greasy Sae.

Before she returns, I chance upon Mr. Mellark inside the bakery. It looks as desolate as any other place in District 12, but he looks hopeful. He resembles Peeta so strongly in this moment – though I should probably say Peeta resembles his father instead – and I find myself unable to distinguish between my memory of the dead boy and his father.

“Are you angry at her?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

Mr. Mellark looks at me, studies me, and soon decides I’m not hostile. His broad form – just like Peeta’s – relaxes, and he leans against a makeshift counter.

“No.”

It is the truth, and it is all I need to hear. Any further explanation and I will need to steal some bottles from Haymitch to speed it all up.

I emerge from the bakery to find Katniss just returning to our spot under the tree, only to realize I’m no longer there. Before she goes on a manhunt, I tap her on the shoulder from behind and she nearly jumps a foot, whirling around.

“Shit, it’s not like I’m springing an ambush on you,” I raise my hands in surrender. “I was just taking a look around.”

At her expectant look, I nod towards the bakery. “There was no bread. It’s all a lie,” I deadpan, but she doesn’t find it funny.

“What did you say to him?”

She's quick on the uptake, I'll give her that.

“I asked him a question." I shrug. "He gave me an answer."

“What was it? What did he say?” She looks ready to jump on top of me and strangle the answer from my throat. I entertain that thought for a while before I realize she might actually do it, and I might actually die in the process.

“I asked him if he hated you. He said no.”  _This is beginning to feel a little bit like high school._

For a moment I think she is about to wrap her hands around my neck for interfering, but then she just lets out a long sigh – how long has she been holding it in? – and nods, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Thanks.”

She calls it having manners, but I call it progress.

-

She decides to go see Haymitch and I follow her for the lack of anything else to do. The dimly lit streets in the Victors’ Village take us to his mansion and I see that all the lights are turned off inside. Not a single window was lit up, and I begin to see that this might turn into a hopeless venture.

“Sleeping?” I suggest, but Katniss shakes her head.

“Drinking.”

“Could’ve passed out,” I counter, but follow Katniss up the front porch anyway.

She knocks on the door twice. “Haymitch, open up.”

There’s no response, no nothing. No one tumbling down the stairs, or hurling a bottle at the door and barking us away. Katniss takes this as a good sign for some reason and turns the doorknob, pushing her way in. I enter after her and my nose wrinkles, a reflexive action to what greets us inside. The stench is almost too unbearable and I have to pinch my nose for a while before I get used to the horrific fragrance of _drunk and wasted_.

“Alright, I think I’m going to take a step outside before I _die_.”

Katniss smirks – she actually smirks – at me. It’s ridiculous, the way she’s acting – as if she is enjoying watching me react like this. “Suit yourself. I’ll be out in a bit.”

I translate the words as _you don’t have to go in if you’re afraid of the big bad house_ and turn my heel on her. I settle down outside the front porch and watch the little fireflies whizzing around a flickering lamppost - drawn to oblivion, the brightest center of their universe. Down the rest of the street, some lampposts have all but given up and expired. The Victors’ Village looks more desolate than the actual town of District 12 – even the Seam – and I can’t help but frown at the ugliness of it all, along with the bugs' suicidal behavior. Other more sensible bugs float around for the rest of the night like stardust, and I watch them until Katniss opens the front door and comes stomping out.

She brushes past me and I can sense that she isn’t in the mood for conversation. Then I spot the bottle of brandy in her hand and I narrow my eyes. “Did you just steal from Haymitch?”

“He says the worst things when he’s drunk, you know that?” Katniss says, frustrated but hurried with her words. “I want to get out of here. Let’s go. Let’s leave him.”

“And that –” I point at the bottle. “What do we do with it?”

“Share it.”

Familiar words, but they don’t have the same sentiment.

“Hypocrite. You don't even drink and you hate that Haymitch drinks.”

She glares at me, expecting an apology or elaboration or whatever, and I just shrug at her. “Last time I saw a man drink from the bottle, he ended up leaving the district altogether.”

Hurt flickers across her eyes before she smoothens any trace of it into determination.

“Everyone’s doing it.”

I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired or because the fact that she wants to get herself piss drunk for any reason is too good an offer to pass up or because I _really_ want a drink of my own since Gale, but I go along with her. I go along with her easily.

“Don’t they ever,” I say, and follow her into the dark.

-

We end up in the Seam, sitting inside her old house. It’s a miracle the bombing didn’t obliterate this structure. Katniss walks through it, hazy with exhaustion and emotion, and I watch her return home one step at a time. I wait for her in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Soon after I see her appear at the doorway and before she enters she decides to just stop there, hand on the wooden frame.

“This is where I used to live,” she tells me seriously. “Every other day I’d head into the woods with Gale to get some game to trade at the Hob. Every other day I’d wake up to a hateful cat and – and Prim.”

“Don’t talk about it if it hurts.” Bad advice on my part, but I never claim to be a good person who gives good advice.

“But you wanted to. My feelings. You wanted to hear about them.” She gives me a meaningful look. "Therapy."

_Not quite the idea I had in mind when I told you that at first, but..._

Katniss searches the otherwise empty kitchen, not waiting for a reply from me. “I remember this like it was just yesterday. And now it’s today, and I don’t know what this place is anymore.”

“Home."  _Where you're supposed to be. What you're a part of._

The word catches her attention. She finds me with her eyes. “I told you, I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s not a building. Not for us.” I get to my feet and walk up to her. “Not anymore.”

“Then…” She follows my meaning. “A concept, then.”

“Sure,” I nod. Then I bring her to the table. “Is this your first time?”

“I’ve been in a war, I’ve been in two Games…I’ve committed treason. I’ve – survived. Alcohol doesn’t scare me," she says, but I know she doesn't believe herself. She is - what, seventeen-years old? Barely the age to think about brandy.

Then again, barely the age to fight in a war. To be used like she was.

I let her have it, and we share the one thing that’s tangible. We drink until we’re laughing across from each other at the table, banging our fists at bad jokes and senseless babbling. Katniss talks about Prim, about Peeta, how much she loves them and I listen through half-closed eyes, warmth coming over me as I feel the liquid sear on the inside.

“Love? Love. That’s a funny word,” I say, giggling. “Do you think you’ll love anybody else…Katniss? Katniss. After Peeta…”

She laughs because she is drunk and that’s why she isn’t offended by the question. The weight of it doesn’t reach her. “Fuck no. Never. You know, true love, all that...”

The weight of her answer reaches _me_ , for some reason, and I figure that this drinking thing doesn’t really work out for me after all.

 _One more._ I drink a little more. The world tilts itself sideways and I get to my feet, leaning across.

“Katniss.”

“Johanna."

We giggle.

“Can I kiss you or…something?”

She looks at me with glassy eyes. Then her mouth forms a smile and she gets to her feet, too. She sways a little when she stands and she grabs my shoulders for support. She grins, too close to my face. It sends me all the right signals - or the wrong ones, depending on how you look at it.

"What's the alternative?"

"I...don't kiss you?"

A long pause, and then she says to me: “Fuck it. Do it...” She chuckles to herself. "Do me."

I think about how much I love it when she swears in her drunken stupor. I think about how I want to kiss her more than ever.

And then my lips are on hers and I taste the brandy on her lips – but more importantly I taste _her_ , the bitter, ashen taste on her tongue and the cracks on her chapped lips: the markings of someone destroyed, someone beyond repair, and I think to myself crazy thoughts that involve her on top of the kitchen table and me on top of her.

My name slips out from her lips and I grab her by the lapels of her jacket and kiss her once more because I _don’t want_ her to say my name like that again, like she genuinely _needs me here_ , her voice straining like the beginnings of a lullaby.

I tell myself it’s because she’s pissed as shit, that’s why she needs something to distract her, and I am like the brandy she is fascinated with and can’t resist, but the way she moves shows me so much more, and I can’t help but love every microsecond of it because I want her for all the wrong reasons.

_And I am getting what I want._

I think of the suicidal bugs from before, hurtling themselves to their deaths, unable to resist the allure of the lamppost - of certain doom. In some ways - or a lot of ways - I am acting exactly like them. I'm not sure which is worse - knowing that I'm making a bad choice without doing anything about it or  _enjoying_ the bad choice-making.

I close my eyes as she meets my kiss with surprising strength and I see fire, out of control, burning and consuming and that is what she’s doing – she’s consuming me and I’m doing the simple act of giving myself up, like kindling to a dying flame desperate to come back to life.

Oblivion.


	11. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been making some changes to past chapters, but none too important that you have to go back and take a second look. I suppose I will be continuing the editing in between updates, too! In the meantime, enjoy.

I wake up stiff-necked and hating the world.

Birdsong slips into the kitchen. _Still early morning._ Shifting myself into a sitting position, I feel around with half-closed eyes and an unsteady hand for my clothes. I almost give up when someone flings everything in my face; blouse, jeans, jacket and all. I knock the back of my head against the counter behind me and I let out a groan. “Lay off, sweetie.”

“ _Sweetie_?” Haymitch’s laugh is like shattering glass. “That’s new.”

I open my eyes too quick and the sunlight stings my vision. I drag the jacket over my head. “No. _No,_ just…fuck off.”

That’s when I realize it’s not my jacket, but Katniss’. I take a deep breath, calming my nerves, and pull the jacket down. Haymitch stands over me, arms crossed with a grin that reaches his eyes. He is genuinely amused, and I am genuinely _murderous_.

“Let me tell you,” he chuckles, “I was _not_ expecting this.”

I roll my eyes.

“That makes two of us.” I squint up at him. “Turn around.”

He raises an eyebrow, mockery glinting in his eyes. “Really? After the whole elevator thing?”

“Turn. The. Fuck. Around.”

* * *

 

“Here.” Haymitch pours me a drink. “Breakfast.”

Remembering last night’s brush with alcohol and excessive greed, my stomach clenches at the sight of the amber liquid. I push the glass away. “No thanks.” I give him a significant look. “All that booze is getting you fat.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Haymitch mutters. “The kid took a bottle of it and both of you finished every last drop.”

“Speaking of the _kid_ ,” I bristle with indignation, “You haven’t seen her around, have you?”

“As a matter of fact, I have not. That’s why I went over to the Seam. I was looking for her.” He chews on a piece of gum, scrutinizing me as he sits on the other end of the table. “I’m guessing one thing led to another and…”

“And this is where we talk about something else.” I glance out the window. There’s a lamppost still fighting for its life and even in the harsh sunlight, I see it blinking at me. “You pissed her off pretty bad last night-”

“Yeah, that makes two of us-”

I glance at him. “What happened?”

“Eh,” he shrugs, running a hand through his greasy blonde mop. “I was drunk and she tried having a conversation with me. It was about…about Peeta, I think.” He frowns. “She must’ve wanted me to do the eulogy or something.” He sighs into his hands. “I was drunk,” he repeats, softer this time.

“So what? In other news, the sky is blue.” I prop my feet up onto the coffee table. “So you said stupid things and pissed her off.”

He drags a hand down his face, fixing me with one uncovered eye. “And then you made her drunk, then you banged her and pissed her off.” He chuckles, but there's no humor in his eyes. "Must've been a shit day for her."

“Yeah,” I drawl. I swing my feet off and stand up, dusting myself off in the process. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Haymitch. We should do this more often.”

I'm already reaching for the door when he pipes up.

“And where are _you_ going?”

I look over my shoulder and grin at him. “Somewhere to get better breakfast.”

* * *

“Did Haymitch get to you?” Greasy Sae plops down on the tattered sofa beside me. It could feel like home except we’re underneath a willow tree, on the edge of the Seam, but I tell myself it also could be worse. She hands me a bowl of another unnamed delicacy. “Here. I used to give him this when he’s hungover.” 

“Oh, yeah. He’s a real party animal, that one,” I say, hiding my smile in the bowl. The concoction gets to me quickly – and goes straight up my head. I pass the bowl back with a wince. “What the hell is this again?”

“Precisely what I said. What I give _Haymitch_.”

The bitter aftertaste makes me consider dropping alcohol completely. I turn away, watching the dust rise and dance in the daylight. Weary residents walk back and forth, but Katniss isn’t there, isn’t among them. She’s just _gone_ , gone somewhere that nobody knows. I suddenly think of Gale but then I remember he’s far away in District 2. I slump against the back of the sofa.

“By the way,” Greasy Sae gets to her feet, knees crackling loudly, “she told me to tell you that she wants her jacket back. Just hike up the forest for about thirty minutes.”

“Is she waiting for me with a bow and arrow?”

Greasy Sae doesn’t answer but just grins with all her remaining teeth, yellowed out with age. I take that as a bad sign, but begin my descent into the forest beyond the fence anyway. Katniss’ jacket hangs over my shoulders, feeling heavier than it actually is, for one reason or another.

* * *

I see her in the midst of the trees, staring off into the distance with her bow by her side. For a moment, I let myself stare, taking in her lean form – _she hides underneath this jacket, maybe I shouldn’t return it_ – until I miss a step and land on a twig. The snapping sound is like gunfire in such a quiet place and Katniss turns, bow and arrow at the ready. 

My hands are up in the air before I speak. “Not a deer, sugar puff. Just me.”

She doesn’t hide her contempt, her disdain, in those sharp eyes. And with that bow and even sharper arrow at the ready, I decide to stay where I am.

“Look, Katniss-”

“What were you thinking?” she asks, sounding less angry than I expected her to be. “Back there? Back in my kitchen?”

“I think it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t thinking, sugar puff.” I feel heat rise to my cheeks and around my neck. “Look, can we drop this? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Katniss takes a few steps, every movement motivated, perhaps, by the intent of killing me. “Bullshit, Johanna. Look me in the eyes and tell me-”

“Why do you need it to mean something?” I hiss, matching her movements. We nearly meet halfway, in the middle of the woods, but something stops me and something stops her. “Look, people fuck _all the time_ -”

“How dare you do this to me-” Within the blink of an eye, her nose is inches from mine. I'm pretty sure I feel the heat of her anger, rolling off her body in waves, growing hotter and hotter the longer we stand before each other. “Knowing me and Peeta...knowing what happened.”

Then it hits me, and she doesn’t ever have to in order to make it sting like a real slap.

“Alright. Okay, I-” I step away from her, ready to take off, back to the Seam – hell, maybe even back to District 7. “I was drunk.” Haymitch’s words echo from my lips with similar sentiments. "Both of us were."

It's a long pause before she ever makes a move. 

But instead of retaliating, instead of screaming or lashing out, she lets the bow fall and she sinks to the forest floor with it. In the next few minutes, I watch her shudder with silent sobs – an unnerving sight. Suddenly I’m back in the train car again, watching her thrash around in bed by the doorway, screaming their names. I’m with Gale again, him crying all over the place, his breath heavy with alcohol.

I remove the jacket and place it around her quivering form. My hand lingers on her back for a second longer, and I expel a sigh of relief when she doesn’t draw away. Another long second passes and she unexpectedly folds into the curve of my arm. It’s better than having to apologize with words, so I tighten my grip and hold her close, feeling every tremor in her body until she grows still and the world slows to a stop.


	12. A Conversation About Bad Choices

_Finnick and I watch the sunset together, on the eve of Haymitch's arrival in District 7._

_"I'm glad this is happening," he tells me, his eyes dark and serious for once. Glancing at me, he adds, "You know, that we get to fight the real enemy now."_

_"Yeah. We get to fuck them up. Even better if it gets on camera - maybe get Snow to piss and shit in his pants a little before we get to him last." I smile wryly at him._

_"And they don't get to own me anymore," Finnick goes on, his jaw tight with tension. His eyes glaze over as he remembers. "Freedom. You know what that feels like, J?"_

_"No."_

_"Yeah," he says, quietly. "Me neither."_

_I lean against his frame. "Do you ever think it's a mistake, Finnick? Letting Snow feed you to perverts every now and then."_

_"It's not a mistake, J." He looks at me, rueful. "Mistakes happen unintentionally. It was a bad choice. There's a difference. But it doesn't matter now." He drops his gaze. "Now we have a chance to fight back."_

_"We might die, though." I snort to myself. "Not that it matters to me."_

_"See?" He chuckles at me. "Bad choice."_

_"_ Necessary  _choice," I correct him._

* * *

Moonlight filters through the canopy above, creating little spotlights here and there on the forest floor. I lay on my side, pretending to be asleep while Katniss watches the fluttering leaves, listens to the sigh of the forest. I watch and listen alongside her, but I don’t talk – the embarrassment from earlier on still stings like a fresh cut.

Then I hear her voice, dry and rusty with prolonged disuse, churning out, in jagged notes, a melody I know I have heard before. It is the little song from before, when we first stepped into District 12. She sings it like a prayer, a plea, and I find myself drawn, like flies to the bright center of their universe. I consider turning to face her, but it never happens because she finishes the song one verse too early. I think I hear her heave in between noiseless sobs.

My hand curls and I grab a fistful of soil and grass. I close my eyes and force myself to sleep, but it never happens.

Some time later, she says, “I know you’re awake.”

I keep my eyes closed, though it doesn’t make a difference with my back turned to her. “No, I’m not.”

“You breathe a little easier when you sleep. It’s fuller,” she goes on, as if she hadn’t just heard me deny it. “Like you’re finally taking deeper breaths. When you’re awake, everything about you is controlled.”

 _Or not_ , I think to myself. The night in the kitchen of her old house still stands out in my head, a testament to my lack of self-control.

“Watching me sleep, now?” My chest tightens at the thought. “That’s unnerving. Were you going to stay the night?”

“I don’t believe in running from bad choices.”

“And then what happened?”

“I got angry.”

“At me?”

“No. Yes.” Grass and dead leaves rustle behind me as she turns her body. “Can we drop it?”

The trees sigh with the wind, as if exasperated at us both. I curl into myself, shivering in the cold. Pride stops me from asking anything of her, so I suffer in silence, contemplating making a run back to District 12 first. Maybe find Greasy Sae, share a fire with her. Or back to Haymitch’s, where the whiskey and brandy will burn inside like a real inferno.

The real warmth, though, comes from the jacket that Katniss spreads over me not one minute later. I grip at the sleeve of it, grateful.

I close my eyes, finally ready to fall asleep for real. Then something occurs to me, in the midst of my fatigue.

“You said it was a ‘bad choice’.”

“…Yeah.” Her voice lilts at the end as if asking a question.

I tug at the jacket and pull it up to my chin. I smell the forest on it, and I think I smell her hair. I let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” I say. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Take the jacket back if you get cold.” Despite my offer, my grip tightens on it. 

Silence, and then: “Okay.”

For the rest of the night, sleep eludes me. And by the forced breathing beside me, coming from Katniss – as if right now, at this very moment, she is fighting to be alive – sleep escapes her, too.

So we lay there, awake and bright-eyed, until the night melts away and the sky is renewed in sunlight. 


	13. (Bad) Signs, Part 1

I watch the sky turn grey and feel my insides knot. _Not a good sign_. I turn my head and see that Katniss’ eyes are on me, not quite as disinterested as I am hoping her to be. She cocks her head to the side. “You okay?”

“I will be.” I bite my lip, hating that I cannot keep the shake out of my voice. “I’ll just stay inside today.”

“Okay.” She nods, slowly, as though she can’t quite take me at my word. “Then we’d better hurry. Clouds are catching up.”

The jog back into the Seam is quick. My heart is pounding in my throat by the time we pass over into the merchant’s square; the drops of rain on my skin feel like little needles, pricking me with a sensation not too far from electricity. I push past Peeta’s father, forgetting all about Katniss by the time the Victors’ Village looms in sight. Just as the first crackle of thunder signals the beginning of a very bad day, I hide myself in the dark library of Katniss’ home – but not before pulling the curtains and cranking up the radio to horrifying levels.

Katniss comes in soon after, slightly drenched. She dries herself off, taking her time while I take my time, poring over books that don’t interest me in the least but it’s better than listening to the hiss of heavy rain against the window and the timbre of thunder rattling my bones.

“These books are shit,” I bite out when she sits down across me. “Do you even read them?”

Katniss eyes the book in my hands, seeing something that isn’t there. “No.” She picks at loose threads on the towel that hangs around her neck. “No, that was all Prim and my mother."

I close the book and push it back into its resting spot on the shelf. “I’m not helping, am I?”

Katniss concentrates on the towel instead of me. “I never asked for help. How do you help anyone anyway-” She gives up on the loose threads and sighs sharply. “You can’t get in my head and make it stop.”

“No,” I agree, rising to my feet. I leave the rain far behind me and walk up to her. I pull the towel from her neck, watching her wet hair fall over her shoulders in the process. The water repulses me, but she doesn’t. I place the cloth over her head and help her out, trying not to wince at the damp feeling seeping through.

It is a strange picture, in my own head – I am helping Katniss Everdeen dry her hair while hiding from my own fear, and she is just looking at me, not particularly bothered or interested, as though this is a normal day for us. Minutes pass and I eventually toss the towel aside, wiping my hands on the fabric of my pants vigorously until she latches onto my wrists to stop me.

The horrid music is still playing in the background, but her voice is clear as day. “Relax,” she orders. “You won’t drown with that little water on your hands.”

I laugh, a huffing noise that comes more from my nose than my mouth. “You suck at counseling. Never be anyone’s therapist, okay?”

The corners of her lips twitch ever so slightly. “Peeta would know how to help. He’s better at this than I am.” She lets go of my hands and I am vaguely aware that I feel severely underwhelmed.

“Dead men can’t do much.”

She doesn’t wince, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t even _shoot daggers_ at me from her eyes. Just nods in acceptance of this statement. “Not much at all.”

Because she doesn’t cry, because she doesn’t react, the burden is on me. I move closer and pull her in, letting her rest her head against my body. I hold her there, despite the awkwardness, and feel her breathe, slow and steady. Then she draws her head back, looks up at me with a strange look of wonder in her eyes, asking a question I’m not privy to.

My fingers weave through her damp hair and I shudder against my will.

“Don’t stop,” I hear her murmur, her voice so far away. “Prim used to give me a massage like this whenever I-”

“I’m not Prim,” I say in a low voice, almost a growl. “I’m not dead.”

Her hand finds my wrist and she pulls me down, gentle and even pleading. The rock song in the background covers up the rain, which I like, but it’s the heat of her breath against my ear as she brushes her lips on my skin that makes me think of summer, of the heat of a bomb just going off-

Just as she nips at my neck, the doorbell rings – repeatedly. Coupled with the shitty song playing on the radio, it’s enough to pull us out of the moment. She heads for the door while I head for the radio and as soon as the song stops and the singer is screeching no longer, I hear the lock click outside and the creak of the door swinging open. The harsh sighs of the rain seeps in and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I hear murmuring, and then the door outside shuts with finality. The sound of booted feet on the wooden flooring announces the arrival of several more guests – all of whom are not who I’m expecting and, judging by the dark look on Katniss’ face, not who sheis pleased to see. One of them is the vice-president from District 13, who tried to place an arrest on Katniss from before, and by his side stands a woman with a hard look in her eyes, like she’s still caught up in the middle of a war.

“Ah, Miss Mason. What a surprise seeing you here. I’m Paylor, if you remember.” The woman takes a few strides forward and stretches a hand to me. “Well, _President_ Paylor now.”

I shake her hand, offering a bland smile. “Look who’s rising up.”

She responds with a stiff smile of her own. Behind her, the vice-president squirms in the dim setting of the little library. He tugs at his collar and tie.

“I apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you,” Paylor addresses Katniss now, as she saunters past them with a dispassionate light in her eyes. “I was hoping a personal visit would prevent any future misunderstandings.”

“Alright,” Katniss turns her head. “Go ahead.”

The air is thick and heated with tension. We sit around each other, and for a brief moment all I hear is the rain outside, tapping on the windows, asking to be let in. The vice-president is none too pleased to see Katniss sitting there, as if her very presence offends him, but Paylor looks a little less bothered. She reclines against the curve of the leather sofa, absentmindedly running a hand over the armrest as she shifts into a comfortable position.

“You must be wondering why I came here to see you, Katniss.”

Katniss nods wordlessly.

“Ever since the end of the war, many districts, including yours, have been left without a mayor or governor,” Paylor says. “I’ve only recently decided to make some rounds and look over the state of the districts – and it bothers me, Katniss, that the people are living like scattered sheep. It only makes me think that no one considered what would happen _after_ the war, only that it needed to happen.”

“Bad choices,” Katniss murmurs. She meets my gaze and lingers, before returning her attention to Payton.

“In the face of someone like Snow, and in light of the last 75 years?” Paylor half-smiles. “There are no such things as bad choices. Only the choices that help you move forward, no matter the cost.”

Paylor lets her words sink in before moving on. “I will be sending a detachment of troops to help with the rebuilding of District 12. In return, I hope we can maintain a trade of manpower with medicine.” She nods to the fidgeting, pathetic excuse of a vice-president beside her. “Riley will serve here as stand-in mayor until the locals elect someone new.”

At the mention of his name, Riley clears his throat and nods at no one in particular, all the while avoiding Katniss’ hard gaze.

“Any questions?” Paylor asks, rising to her feet.

“One,” Katniss says. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Paylor only gives a polite smile. “Out of courtesy, so you don’t get taken by surprise or feel like we’re hiding things from you. Have a good day, Katniss. I’ll help you send your regards to your mother in 4 and your friend Gale in 2.” Then she nods at me. “Johanna.”

The moment they’re gone and the door slams shut, I roll my eyes. Then I notice Katniss walking over to reach for her jacket, her lips pressed together in a thin, tight line.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something,” she says, glancing at me. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“What is?”

“That she knew where my mother and Gale were.”


	14. (Bad) Signs, Part 2

“Sending in soldiers, eh?” Haymitch’s mouth curls in distaste. “That’s not threatening at all.”

“I don’t like it.” Katniss crosses her arms. “It felt more than what she made it out to be. It felt like a _warning_.” Then her voice drops, out of fear or uncertainty I can’t seem to say. “She knew where my mother and Gale were. I didn’t even mention a thing and Gale, he-” Her eyes flick in my direction. “He only just left.”

“I need to contact Heavensbee,” Haymitch says, as though Katniss hadn’t even said a thing. “I haven’t seen him since we left District 13. He should know something about this.”

“Haymitch- are you even listening to me?”

The cutting edge of her tone makes him give up on his drink. He turns to her, fully sober and finally resembling someone who functions. “Of course I am,” he says tightly. “But they won’t get hurt if they stay where they are-”

“So she _was_ giving me a warning.”

“-and if _you_ stay where you are.”

Katniss blinks at him. “What?”

“I’m going to make a call. Don’t,” Haymitch makes his plea to us with his eyes more than his words, “go anywhere. This feels too much like…I don’t know. The Capitol.”

“Snow’s dead,” I point out. “Out of the picture.”

“He wasn’t the only dangerous one in the room.” Haymitch gives Katniss a meaningful look. “Now, just give me a minute, both of you.”

When he leaves, Katniss turns to face me. “Is this an overreaction?” she asks me seriously.

“No,” I answer. “Last time someone made creepy social calls, my life didn’t turn out very well. And no one needs to be armed to rebuild a place.” I smile without any real emotion behind the gesture.

She seems to relax and tense up at my words at the same time. My hand goes to her shoulder and I clamp down, hard. “Look, I don’t know District 13 very well. I only know they hated Snow, hated the Capitol’s bullshit, so I sided with them. But now, everything’s a mess. And if there’s something else I can trust people with, it’s taking advantage of that mess.”

“What do you think she wants to do?”

“I wish I knew.”

Katniss huffs and crosses the room to stand by the window. “She packed the soldiers in while we were talking. She wasn’t asking for permission. She said she wasn’t going to hide anything from me, but she never promised she wasn’t going to trap me, either.”

It’s only there, in the greyish light of the aging morning, that I notice how exhausted she is. Her shoulders, pressed down by some seemingly invisible weight. Her posture, folding inwards into herself. Her mouth, permanently curved in a disapproving fashion. The way her brows lodge themselves in a perpetual frown. I think of the last time she had a real laugh, drunk but free of the world. I think of how it won’t hurt to do it one more time.

Then she turns her eyes towards me and softens her gaze. “You okay?”

 _Okay?_ It’s a ridiculous question, especially coming from someone like her. Someone who’s lost a whole lot like me, someone who impaled her own lover because she ran out of options. All the pain I know, she knows too, and all she can think of asking is if _I’m okay?_ I let out a snort. “Stop asking me that.”

“Okay,” Katniss says unsteadily. “Could you...come here?”

Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me and not looking _through_ me this time that gets my feet moving when she invites me to her side with a single look. Maybe it’s the way she runs her fingers through my hair, touches her lips to my throat, that makes me so quiet, so still, like it’s the first time someone’s feeling me up this way. Maybe it’s the way she presses her body against mine and then falters at the last second, like she wants _this_ but not with _me_ , that makes me draw back slightly.

There are no such things as good signs – only the ones that help, for better or for worse.

“We shouldn’t,” I say with a dry throat. “If you don’t want to.”

“No, I-” Her hands find my waist, but she never quite _holds_ me, like she’s still searching for something there. “It’s not like that.”

I chuckle. “It won’t kill you to admit that you wish I was someone else.” I play with a lock of her hair, memorizing its texture. “I know you’re guilty, sugar. It’s okay.”

She recoils as if struck. “What do you know about my feelings?” Her lip quivers in agitation. “I’m not asking you to give me the rundown on why I do what I do. What is your problem?”

“My problem is that you’re not seeing yours,” I bite back. “It offended you the first time we banged each other, yeah, that I get. Then you act like you don’t ever want to touch me again and then you _do_ , you go for it whenever you see an opening just because _I’m_ around and it’s easy. Now you practically _beg_ me for a fuck and then you start hesitating, and then you lie through your teeth about it because as much as you _do_ want to have sex, you don’t want to do it with me.” I take a step back and shove my hands in my pockets. “It’s not that fucking hard. You didn’t even have to say it – I know you – you loved him.”

All the while Katniss watches me in consternation. Her mouth parts, like she wants to say something but can’t think of it. Then she closes it and turns her back to me, leaving me, once more, feeling like I’m running a fever and so painfully underwhelmed.

Before either of us make another move, Haymitch returns, stumbling in with a face drained of all color.

“Plutarch Heavensbee’s gone.”


	15. While The Town Sleeps, Part 1

Haymitch insists Plutarch isn’t gone – gone as in _dead_ – but he disappears behind the doors of his reading room later, the muffled barking belonging to a man on the edge of panic being the only indication that he hasn’t, in fact, drunk himself to death yet. While he’s locked away, Katniss and I watch the soldiers from District 13 take their place everywhere – the Seam, the merchant’s section, and the charred remains of the Hob.

There are guns, too, and no one seems relieved, not with the way the locals are hiding behind windows and locked doors. They file in and out of houses, pretending they don’t have a rifle slung over their shoulders, and all I can think about is how much they resemble the Peacekeepers and how much I want to sink my axe into their skulls.

The interim mayor, Riley, promises the locals a speedy rebuilding, but no one quite believes him, not with the way he keeps himself in pristine condition while the soldiers march about, never once assisting the men in town with construction work. “We need their undivided attention on keeping you people _safe_ ,” Riley insists. “District 13 - and the Republic - has your back.” His plastic smile never wavers.

Katniss spends her nights watching the streets from the roof of her house, her dedication speaking volumes of her suspicions and distrust of the system. Sometimes I join her, sometimes I don’t – the abrasion from our last conversation still stings like brand new, like it isn’t quite done with me yet.

It’s only later when I learn that neither is Katniss.

* * *

The pine needles dry up and die. I tell myself it was only a matter of time, and make plans to head into the forest to find some more. I toss the dead bundle in the trash before I take off unannounced – it’s not like anyone’s going to notice; Katniss has been out of sight for an entire day now and Haymitch is either passed out in his room or he’s made a beeline for District 13 to presumably pull Plutarch out of whatever ditch he’s stuck in with his bare hands. 

Guided purely by memory and moonlight, I duck under the fence, grateful that it is at least no longer electrically charged – but it doesn’t stop me from shivering before I take the plunge – and push on into the shadows.

I find what I’m looking for after an hour or so. The pine trees’ scent is strong, perhaps because it’s a still, windless night. I think briefly of District 7 – home, if you will – before approaching the sturdy thing and feeling the roughness of its bark. I close my eyes, thinking of _home_ again, breathing in the forest and the chill that hung in the air. Here, away from Katniss, the soldiers and the reek of alcohol, I breathe _fully_ – just like the way Katniss describes it.

I barely pick a handful of needles when a twig snaps behind me. The rustle and crunch of dead leaves and grass make me turn on my heel, startled. The soldier lets out a chuckle. “Saw you out by the fence. You’re not supposed to be out here past curfew, you know.”

“Didn’t know there was a curfew.”

The helmet and the dark of the night conceal his face, but I hear the grin in his voice. “That’s too bad, then. Why don’t you come over here for a sec, honey?”

“Oh, no.” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?” I can climb trees, though not like Katniss, but judging by his large frame in what little light there is, it’s good enough.

“’Fraid not. Now do as I say, you little rule breaker.”

I scramble for the nearest branch of another tree and hoist myself up with ease. When the soldier follows suit, I move fast and move up another level. He lets out a growl, playing the predator and making me the prey. He swipes at me from the lower branch and I shift myself out of his reach.

“Might wanna up your game a little, shithead,” I spit down at him.

“You little fuck,” he growls again, reaching up for the next branch. He hangs on it through sheer strength alone, and the branch bends to his weight. I lose my balance momentarily in an attempt to grab on to the next one, and it is all the chance he needs. A gloved hand grips my ankle and he pulls, and I dive down into the darkness, hitting the ground with a groan. He lands right beside my face, turning into a large, humanoid silhouette that looms over me.

“So,” he cracks his knuckles, “like I was saying-”

There is the startling _snap_ of a branch breaking into half and the soldier jerks from the unseen impact. His shadow falls away, and I hear – and _feel_ – his body land on the ground with a thud. In his place stands another figure, holding the broken outline of the weapon of choice. 

Only the scent of pine on her tells me who she is.

“You couldn’t wait till morning,” Katniss says it like a statement and not a question.

“It’s only fucking 9.30pm, Katniss. I didn’t think they’d _baby_ the entire District.” I get to my feet, dusting off the stray leaves that stick to my side and arms. “And also, for the record, I had it under control.”

“Like hell you did.”

For the moment, I am glad the rest of the world is asleep and it's only just us two here, exchanging pleasantries.

“Okay, what the fuck are you even doing here?”

There’s silence, like she doesn’t quite know what to say. Then: “Thought you might get lost.”

“Give me some credit. District 7 is a goddamn forest.”

“Fine,” she says, with a touch of amusement in her tone. “Let’s go. We can leave this one here, I don’t care much about him.”

I resist the urge to point out that she's implying that she cares about  _me_.

“Sure thing, _Mom_ ,” I say in my best attempt at a child’s voice. “Why don’t you hold my hand while you’re at it, make sure I don’t trip over my own shoelaces?”

My instincts flee with no warning the moment I feel the cold flat of her palm against my hand and her fingers finding their spaces between mine, each one feeling like they’re exactly where they’re meant to be. 

I forget about the stupid pine needles in no time at all. I don't need them anyway.

* * *

 

Haymitch is waiting for us by the time we return.

"You're gonna want to see this."

Something tells me I actually don't.


	16. While The Town Sleeps, Part 2

The television is playing by the time we rally in the living room. Footage of Plutarch Heavensbee, cuffed and escorted into a court building, shocks us into silence. Haymitch, however, just looks grim, like he’d suspected this all along.

“ _Plutarch Heavensbee, former Secretary of Communications of the Republic of Panem, goes on trial tonight for alleged leaking of government secrets to unknown parties. The trial will continue over the next few weeks-_ ”

“Found him,” Haymitch states gruffly. “Just didn’t think he’d be on TV.”

“Leaking government secrets,” Katniss repeats, as though the meaning isn’t quite yet clear to her. “That’s the reason he’s been gone?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. He _wanted_ this government to exist,” I say. Katniss wavers, the mystifying situation growing more and more unclear to her by the minute.

Haymitch gets up from his seat and strides over to the window in silence. He pries the curtains apart and peers outside, working his jaw. “He’s been leaking information, alright,” he says gravely, still staring out the window. “I should be in that court with him.”

“Wait,” Katniss interjects, whipping her head in his direction. “He’s been feeding _you_ the information?”

“That’s what I was going for, yes.” Haymitch lets the curtain fall back into place, making sure there isn’t even a slit for anyone to peek through.

“And you didn’t tell us.”

“There was nothing to tell.” Gray eyes pass over like he’s not even seeing us. “Especially not to two recovering survivors of war and everything else the Capitol’s thrown in as a bonus.”

Katniss’ body goes still – rigid at his revelation. Her eyes grow dark with betrayal and she gets to her feet with clenched fists. “So you kept secrets. For how long?”

Haymitch, exasperated, looks away. “A week after we came back, he started sending me emails on an encrypted server, courtesy of Beetee. At first it was just to keep me in the loop about Paylor’s administration, the new policies that would come out…then he started telling me things like how he was getting worried, how Paylor was working with District 13 to discuss methods of human organization, seizing control of schools, reworking the syllabus, taking over labor division, all that. Seemed perfectly normal for reformation and completely paranoid on his part, but then he told me about the tattoos.” He glances over his shoulder at us. “Remember those? Little schedules on your wrists. Coin’s idea. Plutarch said, ‘They’re bringing it back.’ Then his messages stopped, just a few days ago. And the soldiers arrived.”

“He was found out,” I say, understanding. “But why weren’t you?”

“Beetee had no control of how Paylor ran checks in her own office, only that they wouldn’t be able to intercept our messages. I remain the ‘unknown party’ while Plutarch…” Haymitch’s eyes go to the television. “Well.”

It explains a lot more than I bargained for; the heightened drinking to the point of stinking up the whole house, the yelling on the phone for the last few days inside a locked room, the lack of consideration for other matters – matters that were important to Katniss…

I glance at her and notice she’s deep in concentration, trying to untangle her thoughts, maybe, or thinking of ways to kill Haymitch in the most excruciating way possible. Then she begins pacing, and my gaze follows her movement.

“Is that why we’ve got a curfew going on?” I ask absently, still fixated on Katniss.

“If I recall, the excuse they used was to keep everyone close and safe,” answers Haymitch.

I bristle at his words and at the memory of my encounter with the stray soldier in the forest. “Like hell they are. So what’s the plan?”

Haymitch scowls. “Don’t have one. What are we even planning, another revolt?” He looks up at the ceiling, as though pleading it for some answers. “Ridiculous.”

“We talk to Plutarch,” Katniss says, breaking out of her angry silence. “Get him to spill the rest, like why the President thinks turning into a control freak is a good idea.”

“Don’t you move from that spot!” Haymitch barks. “Are you that dumb that you can’t see what she’s doing?”

“Then _enlighten_ me, Haymitch,” she hisses, rounding on him fully now. “Since there’s so much you already know and I’m just the brooding ex-soldier who can’t see past anything. Come on!”

“You said so yourself,” Haymitch rises to meet her gaze, “that Paylor knew exactly where your mother and Gale were. If you make the wrong move and get yourself involved, who do you think is going to be in real danger? You?”

“I don’t even know what the hell’s going on,” Katniss says, her tone edged with frustration. “How’s she going to pin _anything_ on me?”

Haymitch opens his mouth to retort, but when words fail him he makes an effort to swallow down his anger. All that’s left is the reporter’s nasal voice, grating on my nerves.

_There’s too many damned secrets everyone’s not telling each other. The only one who’s the top player in this game is Paylor. Paylor, to some degree, probably is suspicious of Katniss. Then that means she’s suspicious of Haymitch, too. The key persons of the rebellion against the Capitol. There are reasons to think they’re potentially dangerous – to whatever the hell Paylor’s planning._

“Okay, here’s my suggestion,” I finally say, the threads in my mind coming together. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Katniss looks at me, expectant. So does Haymitch. I get to my feet.

“Let me go see Plutarch alone.”


	17. Johanna's Answers

By some way of insanity, it seems, I offer myself rather willingly to certain destruction.  _Not like I’ve never done it before,_ I remind myself as I stand in front of the mirror in the spare bedroom –  _Prim’s_ , I note with a twinge of discomfort. I brush my fingers over the short buzz of my hair, beneath the part that’s already grown out since the Capitol’s defeat. Even until now, the tips barely graze my shoulders.

It takes me a while to notice Katniss’ reflection in the mirror. She leans against the door frame, a slight frown on her face. At first I think it’s because she hates the idea of letting me go, but she crushes this suspicion with ease. “You should trim it a little,” she murmurs. “It’s a little frizzy at the ends.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. My hand drops to my side. “When I get back.”

There’s a struggle in her eyes as she walks up behind me, gaze fixed on my reflection. “Why are you doing this?”

“Not for you,” I reply too quickly. “I mean – in a way, yeah. Half of the reason is you and the other half is…”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s still crazy, even for  _you_.”

“Stop,” I lean against her despite the distance in my words. “Stop trying to change my mind. You spent, like, the last ten minutes screaming in my face and even  _that_ didn’t work."

She says nothing, though I feel the slight pressure of her body against mine.

“I do like this, though. Quiet, civil…” I smile, rueful. “It’s almost as if you like me.”

She weaves her fingers between mine, just like it happened in the forest. “I don’t – I don’t not like you,” she tries. It makes me laugh.

“That’s better,” I say, gentler than I’ve ever known myself to be.

* * *

She rubs at the shaved region of my hair, running her fingertips over the parts that are just starting to grow out. If it were a few months before, I know I wouldn’t be humming in contentment. The melody is a little jagged with bad memory, but I do what I can with what I remember of the meadow lullaby. Katniss stirs when she recognizes it – I hate to admit that she actually did take a while – and looks at me with a peculiar look in her eyes. Her lips are curled at the corners, a half certain smile that even I’m half certain of. 

She offers no comment on my musical aptitude, however, and that I am fully certain I like.

“There’s this one time, Gale wanted to take me away.” She pauses and swallows, throat bobbing. “Before the Reaping. He wanted us to run.”

“And?”

“Sometimes I wish I did,” she says, mostly to herself. But then her gray eyes flick up at me. “What would you have done?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Is this you asking me if I’d run away with you?”

“Do you want to?”

The question hangs in the air like an axe over my head. Either answer won’t do me any good, but another thought occurs to me:  _it’s not like she’s being serious._

“What do  _you_ want?” I ask her. The push and pull of our conversation feels too much like a dance, which I hate, but it’s impossible to stop when she’s so close to me, her breath hot against my skin and the electric touch of her lips along my jawline. I hate her so fucking much in this moment, but it could just be the fog in my head making me irrational because  _it feels so good Katniss just don’t stop don’t ever stop_

“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice is barely a whisper. Like she’s on the verge of death, like she’s hurting with every word she speaks. “Fuck, I don’t know. I just know that the moment-” Her voice wavers, growing thick. She swallows it back down, whatever it is. “The moment Peeta left, he never came back.”

It should hurt, the way she’s thinking of Peeta as she’s pawing at every inch of me while she speaks. It should make me want to hurl because she can’t see past his ghost and she has to get drunk to be able to fuck me. It should make me want to run away on my own and hide amongst the forests in District 7 instead of  _her_ forest.

It frightens me that it doesn’t.

“I’m not Peeta,” I say, voice turning hard. I take her roughly by the chin and I’m surprised to see that she lets me. “I’m not dead. I’m coming back.”

I decide against waiting for an answer and crush my lips against hers, savoring every second that passes, like it's the last thing I'll ever do.


	18. The Failsafe, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.”   
> ― Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less Katniss for a while, until 'The Failsafe' is resolved. Onward!

The train shudders and groans to life like a beast surfacing from slumber. I stand by the window and watch the empty platform shrink in the distance; it’s impossible for Katniss and Haymitch to come and see me off without raising suspicions. It’s better that way, too – that way, Katniss won’t sneak her way onto the train and Haymitch won’t have a heart attack. Her mother and Gale will be safe too, I tell myself. I tell myself a lot of excuses throughout the entire ride, and I muster all the self-restraint I have to not make one of them about Katniss.

I cross the carriage to get to the other side, where the cabins are just behind the metal door. There are only three other passengers on the train with me, all of whom I don’t know and don’t want to know, so the only place left for me to spend the rest of the train ride in peace is inside a guest cabin. One of them, a broad-shouldered man that reminds me so much of Peeta, takes a long look at me before I disappear through the door and into the next carriage. It doesn’t bother me much because the moment I step into the cabin, I lock the door behind me.

The plan is to pretend I’m going back to District 7, but hide out in here until I reach the main city (I try not to call it the Capitol anymore because even though it looks the same, I tell myself it really isn’t underneath its remnants).

I sink into the bed’s softness and pull out my axe. I grimace when I see the extent of ruination caused by prolonged disuse – the blade’s a little blunt (I swipe my finger along its arc to test it out for good measure) and it’s lost a bit of its shine since I last polished and sharpened it. The sight of it makes me think distractedly about how Katniss has done the same to me – wearing me down, that is. I suppose I do deserve it, I decide, as I set the axe down on my lap and get to work.

The fog in my head clears after the train puts enough distance between me and District 12. I stop polishing my axe and look up. _What am I going to do again, exactly? March into the Justice Building and…_ I scowl at my own muddled reflection on the axe blade. _Playing the hero without thinking it through. Yet another bad choice for Johanna Mason._

It would be a lie to say that the recent events don’t cause a shiver down my spine. The rigid workings of District 13 don’t sit well with me, so the thought of it becoming a nationwide epidemic leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I try to rationalize the whole situation, find a loophole we’ve missed as a trio of traumatized war survivors, but there’s too little information to come to any conclusion. I have never been one to think _excessively_ and now that I do, I feel certain that I have to stop.

 _No use being paranoid and overthink everything,_ I tell my reflection. _You’re on this train because you want to avoid overthinking._

 _And also Katniss,_ another voice surfaces. _Because everything is about Katniss._

_That is fucking bullshit._

_Really, now? That would explain why you followed her all the way back to District 12 like a lost puppy, then. Because it’s_ all _bullshit._

I gather that my insanity is catching up with me, snapping at my heels, so I do the only thing I can do – sleep it off.

* * *

District 7 rolls by and I watch it go with half-closed eyes. There’s not even a touch of regret or longing, even if the never-ending forest calls out to me, promising a better sanctuary than in Katniss Everdeen’s arms. 

I ignore it, like all else, and shut my eyes to the world.

* * *

_The night before the attack on the Capitol, Finnick and I meet in the hall. We figure that since it’s ending tomorrow, whoever’s tracking us on the devices won’t give a shit._

_It turns out, they really don’t._

_Finnick looks about as exhausted as anyone else. His face misses its usual shine, the youthful vigor that charmed half the Capitol into falling head over heels in love with him. Where there was once a cocky grin that tempted even me is now just a frown, chiseled by the long hours of being carted around like docile animals (until we’re ready for war) and being made to do whatever the higher ups saw fit._

_It’s only when we talk about Annie that his eyes light up and he’s himself again._

_“What has she done to you?” I ask, but not unkindly. I smile because he’s smiling again, not because Annie’s turned him into the world’s most hopeful romantic. “I mean… it’s just hard to understand, that’s all.”_

_“I think you do understand,” Finnick says, putting an arm around me. I think I feel the power underneath his skin, hidden in his flesh, and I wonder if it all comes from Annie. I wonder if he’s preserving all of his fighting spirit for the battlefield, so he can go home and love her again._

_I wonder how that feels, in such a time as this._

_“No,” I look away. “No, I’m way past that. It’s fucking weird.”_

_Finnick chuckles. “Johanna, when this is all over, you’re going to find someone for yourself and get the crap scared out of you.” He kisses my head through the ugly buzz cut. I smile against my will – he has a way of making you feel beautiful even though you’re really not. His fans in the Capitol stand as testament to that. “I promise.”_

_“I really don’t think so, Finn.”_

_He turns my head back in his direction with a hand. “Don’t lie. You’re already scared.”_

_“Of who?” I challenge unsteadily._

_“You’d never admit it. Not yet.” He pulls me into a hug, and it’s the best I’ve felt in years. “But we’ll have that talk when we get back. Then we’ll laugh about it together.”_

_I decide to take back what I said about having no one left to love. If there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s Finnick Odair and his cocksure grin._

_We never have that talk, of course._

* * *

Only just a muted echo of its former glory, the New Republic of Panem stands like an injured soldier. Injured, but recovering. 

I step off the train and onto the platform, trying not to think about the time I spent here after the Quarter Quell. It had been the last time I ever felt comfortable with water on my body, but more importantly it had also been the last time I ever saw Peeta as he truly was. I shake off the haze of sleep like I do my memories of our torture – the most intimate I have ever been with him, I think, because apart from my screams I remember his the best – and carry on into the crowd, the vibrant color of the city’s inhabitants never quite catching on like it did before the fall of the Capitol.

The streets are not like how I remember them. People avoid eye contact rather than ogle at you outright now, no matter how bland you are. I decide it’s just as well, because I’m not here to be recognized. I pull at the strap of my knapsack and pick up the pace, passing by buildings greyed with age and soot, their shine diminished for good.

A hand touches my shoulder and I spin wildly, ready to use the axe if need be. My body tenses at the thought of being caught – _no, God, not so early on_ – but then I see that it is the man from the train, the one who reminded me of Peeta, and I let out a breath I had been holding in.

“I wouldn’t walk around with my head held high like that,” he says, voice rougher than Peeta’s. “Especially if I’m you.”

“No one’s going to run up and ask for an autograph anymore, so I think I’m good.” I shrug his hand from my shoulder. I barely take a step before he steps in my way again, moustache rippling with apparent disapproval.

“Don’t be stupid. Come with me.”

“I don’t even know you and you want me to follow you?” I tighten my grip on the knapsack. “Not suspicious at all.”

“Brett Winston,” he says quickly, thrusting out a hand. I don’t take it and he retracts it, his face betraying no signs of being offended. “Look – I know you’re here to get into the Justice Building to see Plutarch Heavensbee.”

His words jump out at me. I narrow my eyes, still suspicious. “And how did you figure that out? By the color of my hair?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’m the failsafe. I’m here to get him out.”

“Out?” I shake my head. “No, I just want him to tell me what’s going on, and then I’m going back to-”

“Katniss Everdeen won’t be able to do _shit_ without Plutarch,” his voice drops, presumably out of necessity because Katniss is still a name many revere or resent. “Not in the Quarter Quell, and definitely not this time.”

“I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone here.”

“I was on the train-”

“And you followed me. It’s fucking creepy.”

Brett draws back for a moment, taking deep but silent breaths. Then he leans forward again. “I can tell you everything you want to know. But only if you help me bust him out.”

I frown. “How do I know you’re not actually one of Paylor’s dogs?”

“You don’t. But I’m the only chance you’ve got if you want to get even a meter of him.”

“Sure, like you can get past security with that size-”

“Beetee.” He huffs, clearly displeased with the reaction I’m giving him (which goes along the lines of _what the fuck did you just say?_ ). “Beetee. He’s _here_.”

“Oh, don’t tell me he’s in on it.” My head throbs. _Too many surprises._

He smiles for the first time since our meeting.

“You don’t think you’re going to do anything useful with that axe, do you?”


	19. The Failsafe, Part 2

We go deep underground, using the tunnels to find our way through the behemoth of a metropolis. Memories of Finnick sinking into the shadows here don’t stray too far from my mind; I foolishly peek around dark corners as Brett leads the way, as though I am expecting to find Finnick’s decaying corpse laying around somewhere – or worse, finding Finnick alive.

I swallow down the bile that’s rising in my throat and concentrate on keeping up with Brett; for a man of his stature, every stride he takes requires me to take two more. Halfway through he notices this and slows down of his own accord, resembling a father that begrudgingly accommodates to his child’s capabilities.

“The administration cleared out every single last mutt down here,” he says, conversational. “So we’ll be having a long, uninterrupted walk.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“The alternative’s better, of course,” he quips, glaring over his shoulder.

I fall silent for the rest of the walk.

* * *

The tunnels stop where the light starts, and that’s when I notice the set of stairs leading even further downwards into some unknown section of the underground network. It reminds me of District 13, but it’s no military base. Computer screens stack on top of each other, forming the great window to Beetee’s world. Activated holos scatter the ground, showing individual floor layouts of what I believe must be the Justice Building. Papers occupy the next available space, making it virtually impossible for anyone to navigate the room without accidentally stepping on something, fragile or otherwise. 

In the middle of it all, Beetee sits content with his little wonderland.

“Well, it definitely wasn’t you I was expecting!” he says, though his eyes light up with undisguised relief. “At least you’re not someone I _don’t_ recognize.”

“Expecting Katniss?” I tiptoe my way through the mess to reach Beetee. Looking over my shoulder, I realize Brett hasn’t moved an inch.

“Actually, Haymitch,” Beetee replies. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose like the action doesn’t even occur to him. “But he’s probably smart enough to know that he’s also under heavy watch.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I say flatly. “The least suspicious one in the room.”

Beetee chuckles. “All the better for it.”

 _Katniss doesn’t agree, unfortunately._ “So give me the rundown, Beetee. I need to know whatever’s going on here and everywhere else.”

“Messes you up, doesn’t it? I liked Paylor, too,” Beetee says with an air of admiration. “I thought she was perfectly righteous. The shield of the oppressed, if you will.”

“Sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

“Please,” Beetee snorts. “Though, I did prefer her as a soldier and not in that politician garb.”

I shake my head. “Now _you’re_ messing me up.” He laughs a real laugh and I’m amazed with the way he’s handling himself, even in the middle of a mess – literal or otherwise. “But no, go on. I need to know everything.”

Beetee rolls up his sleeves. “Well, I don’t know how much you know, but Paylor’s been coming down hard on all the districts. Not sure if you’ve realized – she’s pretty much rewired school syllabuses, labor distribution in some districts, dissolving the boundaries between each district and taking away their numbers.” He pauses when he almost trips over a holo. “Anyway, that probably doesn’t sound to good to you. To the people here, overthrown and conquered, none of this matters. But to the people on the outside, the ones who actually _fought_ ,” he glances at me, “We happen to see it a little bit better.”

“We’ve heard nothing like that in District 12. Television coverage only showed us so much.” I bite my lip, mentally chewing on Beetee’s words. “Well, enough to get me here, in any case.”

“A simple filtration test shows the impurities in a solution. Paylor expected Haymitch or Katniss to make a move, for some reason. Whoever the culprit was, they’d react to Plutarch’s arrest by coming here – to see him or spring him from prison. Either one.”

“But not me.”

Beetee grins. “Yes, exactly.”

“Okay, okay. So what’s the real deal here?” I look around the room. “You’ve been busy as hell, I take it.”

“The only thing I ever stood for was the dissolving of Snow’s government. What Paylor is doing may permanently prevent another Hunger Games from happening, but the cost is horrifically high.” Beetee grows serious, brows furrowing. “Total control over your people and the demolishing of the upper and lower classes will ensure equality, more than we’ve ever seen in the last 75 years combined, but _dominion_ is not what we were fighting for. I certainly don’t look forward to having another tracking device clapped around my ankle or a tattoo that doesn’t even make a viable fashion statement in this day and age.”

That he maintains his troubled expression as he speaks about fashion causes my mouth to twitch warningly. He catches this and smiles himself, shaking his head. In a polite gesture, he directs my attention to the holo of his choosing.

“Now that you know we’re really in trouble, I’d like to direct you to our objective of the day.” He enlarges the floor plan in a flick of his wrist, and I see the red dot smack in the middle of it. _Cell 902._ “This is the ninth floor, where Plutarch is being held. The trial’s supposed to happen tomorrow night, so we’ve got a bit of time to plan ahead.”

“Alright,” I say, memorizing the floor plan. “I guess I’ll play along.”

Beetee smiles, adjusting his glasses again. “Thank you, Johanna. Now,” he directs his gaze back to the enlarged holo, “Paylor has adopted the forcefield approach when keeping prisoners in, which means there’s a central generator.”

“We take it out, we free Plutarch.”

“Right,” Beetee nods. “Except there _isn’t_ a central generator.”

“You’re fucking with me,” I mutter, dragging a hand down over my face. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see Brett hiding a grin behind his hand, but the gesture is so unlike him that I forget about it quickly.

“Gentleman’s honor.” He walks around the holo. “I’ve done countless scans of the Justice Building, but nothing ever turns up when it comes to a physical power source. But to maintain the field every second of every day requires a great supply. Then I decided to do something else – a scan of this underground network just beneath the Justice Building.” He grins, evidently reaching the crux of his explanation. “This entire network is littered with mini-generators, each one for every cell on every floor. A matrix system, if you will, only far more tedious to disable.”

I curl my lips contemptuously. Knowing Beetee and knowing how meticulous he’s always been, I abandon all hope of finding a solution that’s far less complicated. I lean against the wall, waiting.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, lowering his head. “It’s not like I’m sending you down there to play a game of minesweeper or anything like that. I’ve already identified which switch to pull to free Plutarch and to make things look like a standard power failure. There’s just one drawback – being a matrix system, power transfer happens very fast. As such, you only get a brief window of about ten seconds to get Plutarch out of his cell before the reserve power comes back on for the cells and elevators – prisoners and personnel mobility are priority, after all. Then we have a two-minute window to escape.” Beetee nods to Brett, somewhere behind me. “Brett’s been working with Plutarch for a while now. The failsafe, if something ever went wrong.”

“And then?” I cock my head to the side. “Don’t tell me we’re staying here after we get Heavensbee.”

“No, of course not. Which is why I have to start packing,” Beetee mutters to himself. “We’ll have to head back, distance ourselves from the Cap- the Republic. District 7 – your home.”

The word _home_ rouses me from my distractedness. Something close to anxiety flutters within my chest, like he is bringing to attention something particularly offensive or intimidating that isn’t true.

_So, a concept, then._

_Sure._

“No,” I say. “Here’s the deal – after Plutarch gets free, I’m heading back to District 12.”

“To hide?” Brett challenges. When I look at him he gives me a withering look, like it’s supposed to make me regret what I want.

“No." I bristle at his assumption. "But I told someone I’d be coming back. That’s what I’m doing.” 

Brett huffs, baring his teeth for a moment, like he’s ready to snap at me.

“Alright, we’ll talk about this when we get back.” Beetee goes over to stand by his computer. “Now, Johanna, how comfortable are you in a soldier’s uniform?”


	20. The Failsafe, Part 3

While Beetee works at his station, I turn the hologram over and over, inspecting the floor plan. Plutarch’s red dot is still blinking at me, though unmoving, and I wonder if he’s just resigned himself to fate at this point.

“Why are you really here?”

I look up to see Brett staring down at me, dark circles around his eyes – blue-gray, like I’ve never seen before. He is studying me with those eyes, the lines on his face deepened with blatant distrust and suspicion. I look away, unused to the intensity of his stare.

_Not for you. I mean – in a way, yeah. Half of the reason is you, and…_

“It doesn’t matter. Maybe I just don’t like what’s happening. Maybe I like a little freedom, even if it’s a bad choice.”

“A bad choice?” Brett’s mouth twists into a half-grimace, not quite on the edge of condemnation, yet not quite past understanding. “What are you on about?”

“Nothing. I just want to be on the right side-” I glance back at the holo. “The side that feels right to me.”

Brett scoffs. “Don’t we all.”

* * *

Beetee sends us further into the intricate network of tunnels an hour later, with a radio in my ear and a heavy rifle slung over my shoulder. I weigh the gun in my hands, feeling a little lost without the one weapon I fully trust. Brett steps over to my side, his helmet still off. He repositions the rifle, unspoken criticism in his eyes. 

“ _Alright_ ,” Beetee’s voice crackles to life in my ear. “ _You two ready?_ ”

“Yeah,” Brett answers, refocusing himself the task at hand. “We’re good to go.”

“ _Okay. The Justice Building is not too far from our position here – just keep going straight and don’t make any turns. When you’re directly beneath it, there should be a shaft that leads right into maintenance in the basement._ ”

“Understood.” He glances at me through the dark visor of his helmet. “Come on.”

The tunnel is dark, save for the green lights of each console we pass by. The helmets, thankfully, have a built-in flashlight and they light the way well enough for either of us not to trip over each other or anything else. I sling the rifle over my back and hold it steady with a tight grip on its sling.

“Winston.”

“Mason.”

“What happens if something goes wrong up there?” I notice the slight jerk of his head. “What about us? Do _we_ get a failsafe?”

He is silent for a long time.

“There’s a number of us,” he finally answers. “From back when we were working together to fight the Capitol.”

“So they’ll act as our backup. Why didn’t Beetee mention-”

“Because we don’t _have_ backup.” His answer is followed by a pregnant pause. “This is just a two-man operation. If we don’t make it, if we get caught or shot dead…” The black visor stares back at me. “End of the line.”

“Great,” I say, rolling my eyes. The truth is that his revelation claws at my mind, letting a sliver of fear in – and a sliver is all that _anyone_ needs, really, to begin shivering from their very bones. For once, I’m thankful for the vision-impeding visor in place. “In other words, we’re dead.”

“We’ve got two minutes and ten seconds,” Brett says dryly. “Plenty of time to head up and down nine floors in a functioning elevator.”

“And then after that? Won’t they hound our asses when they see the empty cell?”

Brett chuckles. The gesture is so unlike him that it nearly gives me pause. He swings the rifle under his arm and waves it – like it only weighs like paper – in front of my face.

“That’s why we have _guns_ , Mason. Don’t think I loaded blanks in them.”

He laughs again, to himself this time, the sound of it ringing down the tunnel ahead of us.

We spend the next ten to fifteen minutes in silence until we arrive at the shaft Beetee mentioned. Brett slings the gun over his back and, with careful hands, feels the sides of the shaft cover until he finds a good grip. The metal groans horridly as he detaches it, pulling off its screws in the process. The space inside the shaft is larger than I expect; Brett crawls through it with ease. At the end of the passageway, a ladder leads upwards. Brett looks over his shoulder and beckons with a gloved hand.

I follow suit, straining not to let my rifle clatter noisily against the inside of the shaft. We ascend the ladder with ease; it’s not so different from climbing a tree, except that getting up a tree requires a lot more practice. He lifts the hatch at the top by a tiny fraction to peek through. Then he gives it a bigger shove and slips into the room above. I follow on, the suit finally proving to be more of a hindrance than I previously thought.

“We’re in.” If Brett hadn’t been just in front of me, I wouldn’t have heard his scratchy whisper through the helmet. The radio fizzes back to life in our ears.

“ _Right. This Justice Building is only slightly bigger than the ones we know – it has an east wing and a west wing. The elevator you want to catch is located in the west wing. You guys are on the other side of the building._ ”

Brett releases a heavy sigh. “Anything else showing up on your scans?”

Beetee coughs – a harsh sound that makes me twitch at the discomfort in my ear. “ _Oh, yeah. Well…you’ve got a whole bunch of soldiers patrolling every level. But once you get past the lobby guards, everything else should be okay if you keep your mouth shut. Your security clearances are up to the tenth level, so you should be good. According to what I’m reading right now… Brett, your ID number is Alpha-99054. Johanna, Sierra-26503. Everyone got that?_ ”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging at my helmet to give myself some fresh air to breathe. “Sierra-264…something.”

Brett mutters something under his breath.

“ _Don’t worry, when the guards ask for your ID, I’ll whisper it back in your ear._ ” I can almost hear the grin in Beetee’s voice.

* * *

We cross to the other wing with ease, either unnoticed or completely ignored. The soldiers on ground level are far more relaxed, some even huddled in a corner playing poker or sneaking a nap. Brett seems to regard them with some contempt as we turn a corner to the lift lobby. “They’re making this way too easy for us." 

“Expecting a firefight, Winston?”

Brett makes a noise of disapproval. “I’m just saying that it probably means that security will be a bigger bitch upstairs.”

“Then you’re going to get your firefight,” I quip with artificial glee.

The soldiers standing guard at the lobby round on us when we approach. “Hold it right there, boys,” he puts up a gloved hand. “I’m gonna need to check your IDs.”

“Alpha-99054 and Sierra-26503,” Brett replies briskly. “Hurry it up, we’ve got some business to attend to.”

The soldier scoffs like he can’t believe it. He taps at his datapad before looking back up at us. “It checks out. Go on ahead.”

“What’s with the inspection? You must get like a hundred other guys everyday,” Brett stops for conversation as I call for the lift.

“What, you don’t know? Our President’s getting the heebie-jeebies after the small fire in District 2. Some military guys there decided to stir shit up. One of them, yeah, I think his name was Gale. Gale Hawkins? I dunno…” The soldier chuckles. I stiffen at the mention of Gale’s name. “Fucking loons, though. You’d think after 75 years they’d _like_ the change in leadership.”

Brett makes a convincing laugh. “Shit. Were they taken in?”

“Yeah,” the soldier nods, just as our elevator arrives. “Put ‘em up on level nine. The 'suites'.”

Once the elevator doors close, I turn to Brett. “Gale-”

He puts up a hand to stop me as Beetee speaks. “ _Already working on it. If he’s on the same floor as Plutarch then this should be quick._ ” Two seconds pass. “ _Okay. Cell 908. Not too far away. Johanna, you’ll go get him while Brett steals Plutarch during the blackout. Ready?_ ”

“Sure, sounds easy enough,” I say.

The elevator takes a while to reach our intended floor. Brett checks his rifle one last time in the meantime.

“My brother was a tribute, few years back.” He leans against the wall of the elevator once he finishes. It catches me off guard to hear it. “He died, of course. Never made it past the first minute. I hated Snow for controlling all of them. I hated that he had to die that way.”

My mouth curls into a grim smile.

“That’s why I’m here.” He faces the doors. His posture is ramrod straight, like he’s ready for whatever’s waiting on the other side, like he won’t get to do it again. “To make sure nothing like the Games happen ever again.”

I think of how this Brett Winston stands in such sharp contrast to the man who laughed in the face of darkness in the tunnel.


	21. The Failsafe, Part 4

The moment we step out of the elevator, the entire building blacks out. Anguished, alarmed cries fill the air as the guards on watch attempt to make sense of what’s happening. Static fizzles in the dark as Brett and I part ways to look for our targets.

“ _Two minutes and counting. Shutting down the cell barriers at the one minute mark._ ”

“Radio’s not responding. Comms are down,” I hear a guard say as I pass by him. “Fuck, a power failure _now_?”

“Hey, hey, don’t we have those communicuffs?” another one says. “Those aren’t routed to the central system. Check ‘em.”

Only the hum of the forcefield keeps me from walking into certain death. I see Gale’s form, bathed in a sickly blue light as he sits in his cell. I approach him slowly-

“ _Now._ ”

The humming stops, and I dive in to seize him by the arm. Before he can protest, I drag him out and head right for the elevator.

“Who’s foolin’ who- this ain’t no drill! Spread out and guard the priority prisoners!”

“Aye, Captain-”

Brett joins us soon enough and we slip into the elevator before anyone notices. My heart is hammering in my chest as I take a breather. Before my heart rate settles, Gale snatches the rifle from my shoulder and directs it at me. His expression is a mixture of confusion and fear, but it melts away as I remove my helmet with haste.

“Chill out, it’s just me!”

“Johanna?” He blinks at me, and then glances at Brett, who is strangely silent. “Wait- both of you came to bust _me_ out?”

 _Both?_ Just then, the lights come back to life. An explosion, some floors above us, shakes the entire Justice Building. Gale looks up, expression paling. “What the hell’s…what’s going on?”

That’s when I notice—there’s only _three_ of us.

* * *

The explosion successfully draws away all attention from us. The basement is bare as we hop off the elevator, and I turn to grab Brett by the arm. “Where the fuck’s Plutarch?” I hiss, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. 

Brett says nothing and just beckons us to follow him back down the shaft. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut as I remember the sudden explosion – _maybe that’s what failsafe meant? To kill Plutarch Heavensbee when he failed…_

“What are you doing here, Johanna?” Gale asks, jogging alongside me in the tunnels as we make our way back to Beetee. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Catnip-”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in District 2 playing nice and _not_ leading mini-revolts?”

His brow deepens with a scowl. “They killed a few for breaking curfew.”

“I can imagine,” I mutter, the turn of events already losing their novelty and element of surprise at this point.

Beetee greets us at the entrance to his sanctuary. It looks a lot less like what it used to be, though; everything’s been wiped clean from the tables and floor. His papers now lay in a pile of ash, smoldering in a corner. The holos are all but missing, and the computer’s gone as well.

“That was a close call,” he says, wiping his glasses nervously. “Did you retrieve Plutarch?”

“No-” I begin, but Brett puts up a hand to stop me. There’s something strange about his silence, when he’d been so chatty in the elevator from before…

Then he pulls off his helmet, revealing a face that most certainly does not belong to Brett Winston.

“We’ve retrieved him, alright,” Plutarch Heavensbee says in a grim voice.

 _That’s why I’m here,_ Brett had said. _To make sure nothing like the Games happen ever again._ Suddenly, the memory of his peculiar laughter and seriousness in the elevator sends an unshakeable chill down my spine.

_Looks like he got his firefight, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. They're not out of the woods yet, but there's a short interlude next.


	22. Interlude: Peeta's Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When you leave,  
> weary of me,  
> without a word I shall gently let you go.”  
> ― Kim Sowol

"I'm not Peeta. I'm not dead. I'm coming back."

It's the first time Johanna kisses her like that, Katniss notes. It's not a kiss like from before; usually, Johanna kisses her to take something back for herself - whether it's the satisfaction of a need fulfilled or something else, Katniss doesn't know. When Katniss kisses her, she's only reacting based on her instincts - that is, the fire that catches on in her mind every time Johanna gets too close, or they're alone with each other for too long. 

This time, though, from the way Johanna is pushing against her, digging fingers into her hair as her mouth trembles against her own, Katniss thinks it's different. Johanna's no longer taking. No, it's quite the opposite...

When Johanna pulls away, breathless, Katniss takes a moment to look. She watches Johanna steady herself against the vanity behind her, almost tripping over her own feet, looking far more unpracticed than she usually does. She looks at the way Johanna doesn't look at her, the way she's trying to compose herself as she runs a hand through her hair, the way her eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly just taking its first flight.

Then Katniss feels it.

It's small, and she almost misses it, but there it is - butterflies, and their fluttering wings, inside her chest.

* * *

 

It itches, Katniss thinks.  _More than it should._

She touches her lips, eyes closed, the phantom touch of Johanna's mouth against hers still raw, still burning. She notices that this time, it's not roiling in her gut like a need demanding to be met, like she's clawing for water in the middle of a desert. She just wants to kiss her one more time, to check and re-examine the little flutter in her chest from before, like a restless animal waking from slumber and becoming aware of the cage it's in. 

It leaves her worried. Katniss doesn't miss it, though; the worry doesn't encompass  _everything_. She couldn't care less about Paylor, about politics and her regime. She cares for very little these days.

One of them is the itch, right at the back of her mind.

* * *

When the soldiers begin handing out tracking devices and clamping them on everyone in town, Katniss feels ready to set something on fire. Coupled with the fact that Haymitch does absolutely nothing else but drink and wake up with a hangover, it doesn't do well for her emotional state.

"I should make a bonfire out of your drinks," she says, seething at Haymitch who is, once again, sprawled across his own couch.

The drunkard only acknowledges her words with a throaty grunt. "Eh."

"You're so damn useless. What did they even contact you so much for?"

Haymitch opens his eyes, only slightly enough for Katniss to see the grey of his pupils. She thinks she sees regret behind them, but he closes them and drifts into an uncomfortable slumber seconds later.

Katniss takes to the roof that day, watching the burning sunset. She imagines that everything is on fire, for the first time in a long time.

* * *

 

“She should be back by now. It’s been _three_ days,” Katniss says, stalking up and down the sitting room as Haymitch stands by the window, looking out for the same person they were currently discussing. She stops abruptly and releases an explosive sigh. “No. I knew it was a mistake letting her go alone.” She strides towards the door, each step filled with purpose. The television is showing a report on something happening in the Capitol (Katniss never could put down that name), but she doesn’t care, doesn’t want to think…

She only wants to act.

Haymitch catches her at the last moment, blocking the door with his entire body. “Not a chance,” he growls. “Not unless-” He stops midsentence, eyes widening as he looks past her, over her shoulder, at the television behind them.

“ _In an earlier report today, the Justice Building was allegedly blown up by terrorists belonging to an unknown organization. The government traitor, Plutarch Heavensbee, is confirmed to have perished in the bombing…_ ”

Katniss turns, body stiffening with fear. “Plutarch Heavensbee’s dead?” she mutters.

“No,” Haymitch says hoarsely, approaching the screen. “No, no, no…that’s not right. No!” He kicks the television and it falls over, the scene of firefighters putting out the flames of the now half-demolished Justice Building looking strange, lopsided.

Katniss ignores his calls for her as she leaves, taking off into the night.

* * *

She drags a hand over the glass that separates her from Peeta. He looks so peaceful, now that he’s asleep – _dead_ , Katniss corrects herself. A far cry from the man that swore to end her life. 

“Peeta,” she whispers near the glass surface. “If you were me, you’d come after me, right? No matter what. If you thought I was ten meters near that explosion, you’d come for me.” She presses her lips to the glass and pretends she’s kissing him.

The fairytale solution yields no favorable results. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t wake. He never does, but Katniss never stops hoping.

“This feels like you all over again,” Katniss continues, deciding it's the fact that she's alone with him that makes it so easy for her to be honest. “One day she’s here and the next…so far away.” She traces Peeta’s face on the glass surface with a slender finger.

Tears dot the surface. Her tears. She presses the side of her face against the glass. “I have to do this. I need to find her,” she says softly, like she’s afraid of waking him. “You’ve been gone a while, and she’s been gone a while…” She shuts her eyes. “Don’t get mad at me, okay? It's just that you never came back. I’m not mad at you, but…she’s coming back. You understand, right?

“You'll understand if I love her someday because of it, right?”

He doesn't reply -  _of course_ \- and the itch turns into an ache, throbbing deep inside like a ticking bomb.


	23. Departure, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”  
> ― Plato

I reach for my axe after discarding the distasteful uniform. The shock of Brett’s death leaves me a little edgy. When Plutarch gathers with the rest of us, I turn on him with a sneer on my face. “Guess you’re feeling pretty fortunate, aren’t you? Having someone take your place, fake your death.”

If Plutarch Heavensbee feels even a twinge of guilt, he makes no effort to show it. He looks over me like I’m not there and focuses on Beetee instead. “It had to happen,” he says, though I feel like he’s directing it at me rather than the sweating specialist. “Some evils are necessary.”

I scoff, turning away. _Hypocrite._

“That? That was an act of war!” Gale gestures vaguely in the supposed direction of the Justice Building, though we are now underground. “Now they’re going to be looking for us-”

“Except they don’t know who we are and have no means of tracing the attack back to us. As far as they’re concerned, it could’ve been the continuity of your rampage.” Beetee nudges at his glasses with two fingers. “Nothing more than a suicide attempt engineered to make a statement.” He looks up at Plutarch, uncertain. “Necessary.” He says it with no conviction.

“So they think I’m dead too,” Gale says darkly. “Oh, good. That’s pretty convenient for all of us, huh?”

“It is,” Beetee nods. “If anything, it takes Paylor’s eyes off you.”

Gale’s eyes narrow with confusion. He is holding the side of the table like it’s his sole source of support.

“She was using you as leverage, idiot. Against Katniss,” I add. “You and her mother.”

Gale looks ready to punch all our faces in. He takes a deep, slow breath in an attempt to calm himself, but his eyes are still bright with agitation. “Why the hell—would they?” he struggles. “What’s Catnip done?”

“Nothing,” Plutarch finally speaks up, reminding us all that he’s still around. “President Paylor just believes she’s potentially dangerous.”

“She doesn’t deserve to be threatened like that,” Gale says, his voice lowered. “She doesn’t deserve any of that.”

Beetee coughs. “Fearful people are unreasonable people.”

Gale looks to me, out of everyone in the room. “How did you get into this mess, then?” His tone is heavy with accusation, an unspoken thought that’s already bared itself to me: _you were supposed to be with Katniss. Not running around playing soldier again._

“She offered to come here to keep Haymitch and Katniss under the radar. Any sighting of them would alert the President, no doubt,” Beetee rushes to my rescue, something I’m grateful for. I don’t have time to explain myself to Gale – or anyone else.

“You—you did that? For Katniss?” Gale blinks at me. “To keep her safe?”

“To keep nutjobs like Paylor from being in government,” I correct him snappily. I look to the rest of them. “Now, are we gonna make a run for it or wait for them to join our little party down here?”

Beetee looks to Plutarch, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “She’s right. We’ve got a little something set up underneath the dam in 7.”

“Will they find us?”

Beetee swallows. “Eventually.” Wiress’ voice is in my head. _Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock!_ It does nothing for the nerves.

“Then we’ll have to move fast.” Plutarch fits his helmet back on. “Pool our resources, what we know, and come up with a plan-”

The walls close in on us – at least, that’s what it looks like. Everything disintegrates within the blink of an eye and I find the time to feel my heart tighten with regret.

The roar of the explosion leaves a painful ringing in my ears. I watch Gale reach for me in slow motion, arms coming around me in one protective motion. Another explosion, and we’re blindsided. Gale is still holding me as we hit the ground, but he’s soon on his feet. Through my muddled hearing, I think I hear gunfire.

“Come on!” he yells, but it sounds so much like a distant whisper. I blink several times and see him getting to his feet, his back turned as he unloads the rifle – _don’t think I loaded blanks in them_ , Brett reminds me.

The entire tunnel’s been blown open. There’s a large hole where the explosion hit hardest, revealing the city above. Peacekeepers – no, _normal soldiers_ – drop in on us, demanding surrender. Gale doesn’t back down despite being outnumbered and he fires at them, spraying in a wide arc so his bullets hit no one, but everyone is forced to take cover. Beetee rushes to my side while Plutarch steps over me easily, heading down the tunnel.

“Come on,” Beetee urges, helping me to my feet. I notice blood trickling down the side of his face, but he is unfazed, more focused on the pressing need to leave. He doesn’t release my arm and pulls me along. I remember Gale and stop, turning around to see him still shooting at the soldiers.

“Gale!” I scream. “We have to go!”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, so I pry myself from Beetee’s grasp and make a mad dash for him.

“ _No!_ ” Beetee yells. “Johanna-” The rest of his sentence is drowned out by the rifle’s thunder.

When the men in white begin to retaliate in kind, I seize Gale by the arm and pull with everything that I have. He stumbles, letting out a yelp, but I don’t care if I’m hurting him at this point – better me than them. The rifle falls to the ground with a clatter. His hand finds my wrist as he twists, shoving me to the ground. His eyes glow, even in the dark, with a rage that I once saw in Katniss.

“Get out of here,” he commands, before turning back to pick up his rifle.

It all happens fast – like everything else in life – and he stumbles again when someone’s bullet finds its spot. He collapses, screaming as I see the dark red seeping into his shirt and spreading everywhere. I forget Beetee and Plutarch at this point and tug at him, dragging him further into the tunnel. The soldiers, I notice through the haze of panic, have abandoned their cover and are charging right for us. I move faster, adrenaline the only reason why I’m able to take Gale’s weight.

I pull him to his feet and he lets out a cry as his wound is agitated with the movement. I am past caring at this point and drag him along; any medical attention is going to have to happen later. “Just stay with me, Gale. You fucking _idiot_ ,” I say though I know he probably doesn’t hear me.

“Stand down! Stand down and we won’t shoot!” Shouts reach us from behind, along with the increasing intensity of booted feet clanking against concrete. “This is your last chance, dammit!”

I curse Plutarch Heavensbee and everything he is, because we’re about to die. I manage to find a moment in the midst of my murderous thoughts to hope that Beetee, at least, is safe. It does me no substantial amount of comfort when I find that Gale has lost himself in his pain. He puts all his weight on me now, leaning into me and almost falling over; I stagger under him, stubbornly fighting and drawing strength from sheer will alone.

_I’m not Peeta._

“I’m saying this again,” someone behind me yells, “ _Stand down or we_ will _shoot you dead!_ ”

_I’m not going to die. I don’t want to die._

Gale whispers an apology in my ear.

_I want to go home. I want-_

“Get down!” Plutarch’s voice booms from the darkness. I hate to admit that I am relieved to hear it, that I might even _like_ it at this point. “Get down and hold on to something-”

I pull Gale down with me and watch Plutarch click something in his gloved hand. The red light blinks at me for a second before he throws the device at them. Another second passes, and then everything goes white. My body stiffens at the impact of the explosion, a wave of energy bringing the still, musty air back to life. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at the sensation of electricity in the air, and I am suddenly afraid to breathe it in.

I keep my eyes closed. I keep my eyes closed for a long time.

Then Plutarch speaks, and he is gentle. “Johanna. It’s okay now.”

Somehow I don’t believe him.

* * *

Gale goes into shock when the pain gets too much. I press down on the wound with clenched teeth, at least grateful that the bullet hit his shoulder blade instead of his heart. Beetee is shaking beside me, readying the bandages he retrieved from his pack and muttering a soft prayer under his breath. I have never known him to be the religious sort – nor myself for that matter – but the prayer seems to give us both a sense of comfort. A touch of relief floods his eyes when Gale stops squirming and the blood stops flowing. 

“He’s not dead, is he?” Beetee asks in a terrified whisper.

“No. Just passed out,” I say. I check his pulse, just in case. I let out a breath I’d been holding in. “He’ll be alright. Pass me the bandages.”

I dress Gale’s ugly wound after retrieving the bullet – still hot to the touch, I learn with a painful hiss – and spend the next few minutes wiping his chest clean of blood. Beetee lets out a sigh. “Oh God. He’s okay. We’re okay.” He slumps against the wall, his features illuminated by the small light of Plutarch’s helmet.

That’s when I realize Plutarch is just standing there, checking his watch. Checking his _fucking watch_ , when Gale is on the verge of death _because_ of him.

“Hey, Plutarch?” I call out to him with practiced calm in my tone.

He cocks his head at me. “Yes, Johanna?”

I smile, venom at the tip of my tongue. “You’re a fucking shithead.”

I get to my feet and lunge at him, unfazed by his build – _so much like Brett_ – and attempt to find purchase underneath the thick helmet so I can strangle him. He holds me back, surprised but nowhere near being overwhelmed by my useless attacking. Then his surprise turns into rage when I deliver a kick that lands too close to his dick. The dirtbag seizes me by the shoulders and shoves me against the wall.

“Are you done?” he asks roughly, careful to avoid my kicks his time. When I almost get him there again, he raises his voice. “Are you quite done yet?”

“No, you sick _fuck_ ,” I snarl, unable to control the shaking in my hands as I grab his shoulders and tuck my knees in. “That man died for you and you’re not even _sorry_.” I thrust my legs out at his stomach with all the strength I have left. Plutarch lets out a groan of pain and releases me, staggering backwards. “Gale almost died because of you and you’re just _checking the fucking time like he’s not even there!_ ”

Plutarch shakes his head, clutching at the spot where I kicked him. His breathing is ragged with pain. “Johanna…let’s take this…elsewhere.” He looks up at me, and how I _hope_ and _wish_ he’s hurting more than Gale right now. “You can…you can…continue when it’s…over.”

I tip my head back with a laugh. A crazy sound that resembles a shout more than actual laughter.

“What is so amusing, I wonder?” Plutarch asks quietly.

“Something you said,” I say, shaking off the laughter. “About it being over.”

“What of it?”

My gaze goes to Gale, sleeping, and Beetee holding himself beside him.

“It’s never going to be over.”

* * *

We walk for a long time. I’m not sure how, but we manage to find cover in an abandoned café, emerging in its pantry from the drainage hole inside. I shrug off the muck that clings to my drenched blouse and wash the rest of it off at the sink. Plutarch carries Gale over to the bare kitchen table and sets him down on it gingerly. I closely watch the shallow rise and fall of Gale’s chest as Beetee pulls up a chair and sits next to me. 

He nudges my arm with a flask. I question him with a look, to which he replies with a shrug. “It’s just water.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I empty the flask’s contents; the water is refreshing and better than it’s ever tasted before. I find the energy to smile at Beetee, who returns it with one of his.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says simply, before hopping off the chair. He heads to the sink to wash his face.

I turn my attention back to Gale. Still breathing, I note with relief.

“The trains going out of the city have shut down.” Plutarch emerges from outside, taking his helmet off and setting it on the empty counter beside him. His mouth is twisted into a permanent, ugly grimace. “I don’t know how they found us.”

“It seemed too easy,” Beetee responds, voice brittle with fear. “That’s what I thought.”

“No matter,” Plutarch growls, eyes falling on Gale. “We’ll have to find some way out of the city. Get as far away from here as possible.”

“Impossible, unless we’re talking hovercrafts,” Beetee offers.

Plutarch’s eyes flash. “It’s a chance I’ll take.”

“They’ll know we need some way out. They’ll be there.” Beetee returns to the chair beside me. “Waiting for us.”

Plutarch crosses his arms. “I don’t see any other way,” he says, an edge of coldness in his voice. “Unless you think taking a swim is a good idea.”

Beetee huffs, shoulders slumping. “Alright. But it’s just going to be us four against a whole army.” He looks up at Plutarch. “I don’t have that many grenades. And we’ve only got Johanna’s axe.”

“What was that thing back there?” I ask, remembering the blast in the tunnels and the silence that came right after. “It didn’t even leave a limb for us to find.”

“Something like an EMP grenade, except it releases a wave of energy that disintegrates instead of blows apart.” Beetee shrugs. “Kind of like how the forcefield works. A slight touch knocks you back and makes your heart stop, but when it gets into your system, you kind of burn up and die.”

I feel my blood go cold. “That’s fucked up.”

“Paylor invested lots of money into developing it. I was part of the team, of course, which is how I got my hands on them.”

I regard him thoughtfully. “Fucked up, but useful,” I offer.

He just smiles. “You don’t have to patronize me. I hated that she had them made. Why would she need more weapons like these? There’s no one left to fight.”

“A means of controlling crowds,” Plutarch speaks up, “if the crowds consists of angry mobs ready to stand up to her.” He waits a while before adding, "I don't suppose I'm overestimating her to say that it's no longer a possibility but a reality."

“She’d kill them? Really?” I look at Plutarch. “And you know this for a fact?”

Plutarch pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly fighting back a migraine. “I knew a lot about what she wanted to do. Some of it even came right from her own mouth.” He exhales. “This is one of them.”

“The worst part is that she thinks it’s the only way to control everyone and avoid repeating history.” Beetee shudders, though it’s not cold. “The _best,_ most foolproof way.”

“Necessary evils, eh?” I smile bitterly. “When are we ever gonna get someone proper in government?”

As if to answer my question, Beetee glances at Plutarch. I follow his gaze, and then roll my eyes.

“Oh, yeah. _Sure_ ,” I say sarcastically. “Nominate the guy who’d use human shields at any time of the day to make sure he gets out of trouble alive.”

I don’t miss the contempt in Plutarch’s gaze. I enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Johanna makes some plans with Gale after he wakes.


	24. Departure, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates:
> 
> Made some changes to the interlude, adding some more content as I saw fit. Also altered Brett's dialogue during Plutarch's rescue. 
> 
> -
> 
> Been thinking that now's the time to finally stretch Johanna's character while she's still separated from Katniss. This fic has taken on a life of its own since a while back, so I'm really just enjoying the ride. And in case there's anyone thinking that I'm leaving Katniss alone too much to mope by herself - well, far be it from me to underestimate her capabilities, with the right motivation. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! :)

It’s the muffled groan in the dark that jolts me awake from my half-sleep. My hand reaches for the axe beside me, all my senses sharpened with paranoia.

The metal counter creaks with the weight of Gale as he twists and turns, just waking up from his sleep. _Which means he’s going to start screaming._ I get to my feet as quietly as I can, careful not to wake Beetee. His body is trembling by the time I lay a hand on his uninjured arm. Gale stares at me with wide eyes, a mixture of agony and hostility in them. I’m not sure he’s seeing me, but I note with relief that he is at least alive. I suddenly find it easier to breathe.

“Gale – it’s me.” I lean over so he hears me better.

He lets out a deep breath. “Johanna,” he croaks, “I can’t move my arm.” As if to prove it to me, he tries to lift his hand and ends up wincing in pain. He grits his teeth and hisses, body beginning to tremble excessively with the onslaught of pain.

“It’s the adrenaline,” Beetee says quietly, just beside my ear.

I nearly jump out of my skin. “Were you even sleeping, Beetee?” I demand. _Little guy’s got something coming to him if he thinks I can’t get through the last shift of the night to watch everyone…_

He shakes his head. “How can I?” He bends over to hold Gale down. “His body is just coming out of shock, so the adrenaline’s going to wear off very soon. He’s going to be feeling it pretty quick.”

“Johanna,” Gale calls again, growing more and more delirious as Beetee’s analysis comes true. “Fuck, they’re after us, aren’t they…”

“Shut up,” I bite back, unbuttoning his shirt to expose the bandaged area. The cloth is already dripping with blood; I wrinkle my nose at the coppery taste in the air. “Shut up and stop moving. If you bleed all over me, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Helpful,” Beetee quips. “Here, let me.” He reaches deep into his pack and pulls out a syringe and a vial of dark liquid. He injects the needle into Gale’s left arm. In a matter of a minute, Gale goes still. Almost as if he’s gone back to sleep, except his eyes are still open. He's obviously awake, but he's barely conscious of the pain.

“Morphling,” I mutter, feeling the familiar curl of desire within my gut.

“I didn’t take any chances.”

“Do you have more?”

Beetee hesitates, then checks his pack. “Three more vials. Then we’d better hope he has a high pain tolerance.”

I take note of this and push it to the back of my mind. “I need a light, Beetee.” He immediately rummages through his pack again.

I cut the bandage loose as Beetee shines a light over our heads. Now, in the calm of the aftermath, I am able to assess the damage a little better: the entry wound lands right on Gale’s shoulder blade. It is only then that I notice how much thinner he’s gotten, and despite his weight, he looks far less like he used to. It makes me wonder what he’s done to himself in District 2, swallowed in the sea of his grief.

“The bullet hit his clavicle,” Beetee concludes. “Quite accurately, considering how you two were running in the dark.”

“Lucky shot, then.” I can’t seem to tear my eyes from his mangled flesh as I wipe the blood off.

“I think it missed his subclavian artery, though.” Beetee nods to himself. He indicates the line of Gale’s shoulder bone, leading down to the entry wound. “Lucky shot indeed. So the bleeding must just be from torn tissue and muscle. If not the morphling wouldn’t be enough for him.”

I look up at Beetee. “Are you sure you’re just good at electronics and gadgets?”

He smiles, appreciation dancing in his eyes. “I’ve done a lot of reading in between my working hours. Just dress his wound again and he should be alright. I can’t say much about mobility, though. I’ll have to do a scan on the bone itself if we want to do a more thorough examination.” He looks back down at Gale’s bleeding shoulder. “Though I suspect the bullet might have just caused some splinters, and not a total fracture. No exit wound, see? It wasn’t a hollow-point. He’ll live.”

“Tell that to him when he wakes up and asks for more morphling.”

Beetee hums thoughtfully, watching my hands do the work as I wrap a fresh roll of bandages around Gale’s wound. Beetee later fishes out a dishcloth he liberates from a nearby cupboard and uses it to create a sling for Gale’s arm. He ties the last knot after winding the cloth back around Gale’s neck as I prop his head up, and we finish our work with a unified sigh.

“You should go back to sleep,” Beetee says suddenly. “I’ll take over for the rest of the night.”

“If I can even get some sleep in the first place.”

I wash the blood off my hands at the sink. The sticky feel of dried blood makes my stomach curl, and I rub my palms against each other in rapid movement. The water sloshes against my shirt and pants, making it hard for me to focus because I’m starting to shake and shiver again. The familiar fog of panic descends and I find it almost impossible to continue. The thought of water, all around me and inside me, leaves me paralyzed, save for the quick retraction of my hands from the sink.

I sit down on the ground forcefully, yanked by something unseen. It rattles from within, from the deepest part of my gut, climbing and scaling its way up to my chest. If I listen hard enough, with my eyes closed, I can hear the panicked thrum of my pulse, beating and beating as if it knows there’s no rest, no succor to be found from that which cannot be physically fought and defeated.

I find myself yearning for the scent of pine.

* * *

Plutarch seems to think that forsaking his sleep in exchange for scouting the dimly lit streets under disguise as a common soldier will redeem him in my eyes. At least, that’s what I think. When he returns, in the grey light of early dawn, he is looking at me with an expectant look in his eyes, as if to say: _look. I’m doing all this just to keep us safe. I_ do _care_. 

In response to his unspoken declaration, I simply look away.

“We should move,” he says, in a worse mood than before. “They’re likely to be searching the tunnels today; we must make our way to the hovercraft port as soon as possible.”

“Then we steal a hovercraft?” Beetee asks, though the implications of his overly simple question are obvious.

Plutarch cocks his head to the side, shooting daggers at Beetee like a parent that’s being disrespected by his very difficult child. “Do we have to go through this again with _diagrams_ this time, Mister Latier?”

Impressively enough, Beetee stands his ground. “I have another way. It’s risky, but I just want us to remember that we’re not alone on this. We have _reinforcements_ , just waiting-”

“Out of the question,” Plutarch shuts Beetee off with a dismissive wave. “Our transmissions will be intercepted, quite likely, and they’ll converge on their position – not to mention ours – within minutes. It is _extremely_ risky.”

“As risky as going up against an entire armada?” Beetee shakes his head. “Plutarch, we have resources and people out there. Don’t you think they’re going to have some capability of providing extraction?”

Plutarch’s features twist in utter frustration. “What is so hard to understand about-”

The sound of breaking glass brings us all to attention. I snatch my axe off the counter and walk out from behind the table, standing in front of Gale’s sleeping form as we watch the front entrance of the café in tense silence. Despite the first rays of the sun already showing up, it’s still hard to see.

Slight movement in the shadows ahead, in the front area of the café, sends me tossing my axe towards it. The blade of my axe sinks, not into flesh but into the padded wall outside. Someone curses aloud and knocks over several chairs and tables in a desperate dash for safety. Beetee clicks a button and shines his flashlight at the chaos, a mass of limbs tangled with the legs of chairs.

“We’ve got grenades,” Beetee warns shakily. “Put up your hands or else we’ll toss one over.” His hand trembles, and the beam of light shudders along with the movement. “Now!”

“Oh, God,” the man groans, extracting himself slowly from the mess. “Oh God, I’ve found you- agh!” He breaks free of the deathly grip of furniture and rises to meet us at the counter that separates the pantry from the front area, his brown hair disheveled beyond redemption. He looks young, about early twenties, and completely clueless.

Until I notice what he’s wearing.

“One of Paylor’s!” I yell, seeing the white of his uniform in the greyish light. “Get down-”

“Whoa, no! No! That’s not me!” The man waves his hands frantically in the air. “Hands are up, hands are up!”

“Who the- what?” Beetee blinks. “Who are you?”

“Uh, my name’s Jace-”

“Jace who?” Plutarch growls, moving to step in front of us.

“Worthington, sir.” I peek out over Plutarch’s shoulder to see him do a salute. “From District 2.”

“And?” Plutarch prods, not budging.

Jace leans sideways, eyes peering into the kitchen. “We’re part of Captain Hawthorne’s squad…and we’re here to rescue you.”

* * *

“There’s a group of us that didn’t join Captain Hawthorne in his revolt against the soldiers in District 2,” Jace says, panting as he carries Gale on his back. We are running from shadow to shadow, back to the place that the rest of Gale’s squad mates are holed up. “We didn’t want to get into any trouble, but the Captain insisted.” He glances up at Plutarch, who towers easily over him. “We’re glad we didn’t, because it allowed us to come to the city, sir.” 

He is as earnest as he is stupid, I decide.

“And you brought weapons?” Plutarch asks. “Supplies?”

“What little we could sneak out without looking suspicious, yes.” Jace takes a moment to breathe. “We’ve got some pistols, a couple of hand grenades…” He trails off as he tries to recall the rest, but Plutarch has stopped listening; I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Good, good. How many of you are there?”

“Me and two others, sir. Cat and Weyland.”

“Something tells me he’s not interested in getting to know you guys on a first-name basis,” I say with a smirk. Jace’s eyes widen, and he glances between the both of us. Plutarch, predictably enough, makes the rest of the journey with a disgruntled look on his face.

Cat and Weyland are holed up in an office building on the edge of the city just overlooking the hovercraft ports. I stay with Gale and Beetee while Plutarch launches into conversation with the three soldiers, his imposing figure doing more than to just intimidate Jace to complete, undivided attention. Cat, on the other hand, looks far more serious than her squad mate. I notice her blonde hair, which makes me think of Cashmere from District 1, and wonder if that’s where she’s from, too. Weyland is almost as tall as Plutarch, but his lanky figure does nothing to reassure me that we’re in good hands. All the while as Plutarch is talking, Weyland is just staring off into the distance, at the hovercrafts down below.

“Johanna…” Gale stirs awake, and he’s squinting at me in his half-sleep. “Where…where are we?”

“Somewhere safe, I hope. You’ve got some real jokers on your squad, _Captain_.” I gesture in Jace’s general direction behind me.

“My squad?” He attempts to sit up, but his shoulder stops him before I do. He falls back, grunting in pain. “Fuck, my arm.”

“Yeah, you took a bullet to the shoulder, _idiot_.” I sneer at him. “So much for being the great hero.”

Gale somehow finds the energy to grin. “It’s what I’ve been…training for.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we all know you’re a masochist.” Then, while Beetee busies himself with the conversation between Plutarch and Gale’s squad, I lean over and drop my voice so only Gale hears me. “Look, once we get on that hovercraft, we’re dropping ourselves off at District 12. Okay?”

“District 12?” Gale grits his teeth at another wave of pain before continuing. “I thought…District 7. We’re going to fight, aren’t we…?”

“They can fight,” I mutter. “I’m not interested.”

“What? That’s – that’s crazy talk.”

“I _am_ crazy,” I don’t hesitate to remind him. “But running right into another war – even crazier.”

Gale glares at me. “You’ve seen it, though…what they do. What Paylor does, now…” He winces. “She’s turning into Snow.”

“No she isn’t. She’s not going to bring the Hunger Games back.” I bite my lip. “And I have somewhere I need to be, Gale. I have to find out something before I decide if I’m going to waste my time and fight another war.”

His eyes widen with recognition. “Katniss?”

I ignore this. “So will you come with me or not?” I gesture to his arm. “You’re not going to be much use with that slowing you down, you know.”

“I can heal,” Gale insists. “This is nothing.”

I clench my fists, losing the last shred of patience I have. “Why, because fighting is all you know? Because you’re afraid to think about what might happen when you finally have to _stop_?”

Gale opens his mouth to retort, but his words never come. The struggle is in his eyes, I can see it. When he finally lays his head back against the makeshift pillow of Beetee’s medical pack, he closes his eyes. “Fine,” he says in a hollow whisper. “Fine. But Johanna?”

“Yeah?”

“If I’m hiding behind the fighting,” his eyes flick back to me, a softer gaze, “then wouldn't you say that you're hiding behind Catnip?”


	25. Departure, Part 3

Gale's words carve their way inside me, little by little. Later, as the morning stretches into afternoon, I find Beetee settled nicely in an empty cubicle, scavenging for anything useful to keep.

"Beetee."

He looks up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose instinctively. "Yes?"

"I think I'll stay." I swallow the thick lump in my throat. "I mean, with you guys. To fight."

"Really?" he beams, though the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Yeah. Really. I guess I want to fuck them up as much as you do."

He believes me easily, but I don't. I look to Gale as if to prove a point, and he just shrugs, as if to say:  _if you say so._

* * *

Plutarch decides that we should head for the hovercrafts at nightfall. It gives us some time to recollect, and Beetee and I sit by Gale as he sleeps, after another hefty shot of morphling. Outside, the sky glows a burning orange, a sea of fire that’s slowly melting away into a quiet, unfeeling night. I only hope the dark will serve as a good enough cover for us as we attempt the impossible. 

“You’re that girl from District 7.”

If she hadn’t said this loud enough, I wouldn’t have noticed her just standing there in the dark, staring directly at me. Her expression is inscrutable, but there’s no denying the lilt of interest in her voice. 

“You won your Games by acting like a weakling,” Cat goes on, as if I needed the extra explanation. “Johanna Mason.”

“What of it?” I ask. She seems to take this as an invitation and moves beside me, taking an empty chair I now wish I’d placed something on.

“Nothing.” Cat shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I guess now would be a bad time to say that I thought you did well.”

“Probably, yeah.” My eyes go to her blonde locks while her face is still turned from me. “Cat’s not your real name, is it?”

“No.”

Then she turns her head back to me and watches me with that same, unreadable expression. And yet despite this, she doesn’t say anything to try and prolong the conversation, like it’s not even at the back of her mind. She just looks at me, with her unfeeling face, and I eventually give up trying to figure her out and turn away from her completely.

“This squad of his is looking more and more like a band of misfits,” Beetee says quietly, when Cat gets to her feet and returns to Jace and Weyland’s sides. “They can’t be that much older than their Captain.”

“That’s what worries me,” I say darkly. “If they fuck this up and we’re stuck here…”

“You’re going to kill them?” he supplies with a glint in his eyes.

“That’s a good idea, yeah.”

Beetee shudders when cool air rushes into the office through a half open window. He rubs his hands together vigorously. “I hate this waiting. I hate this idea.”

“I hate everything.”

“Yeah, that too.” He glances at me and we share a laugh. He reaches deep into his backpack and pulls out something I recognize as a portable radio. He begins fiddling with the dials and buttons. “I like to keep track of ongoings even while underground,” he explains automatically. “Though this thing can also double up as a transmitter, but we’d have to be close enough to the intended receiver.” He flips the last switch on the box-like device. “Ah, there we go.”

The radio fizzles and crackles with static. Beetee adjusts the frequency, clicking his tongue. A shuffle of booted feet to my right catches my attention, and I turn in time to see Jace offering two bottles of water with a beam on his face. “Thought you guys might need this more than we do.”

Beetee looks up, just as he hits the sweet spot and the crackling stops. “Thanks,” he says, taking them from Jace with a brief smile before returning his attention to the radio.

The young soldier seems pleased at Beetee’s reaction, and plops down on the floor next to us. He takes a peek at Gale’s sleeping form. “Is Cap going to be okay?”

I look over my shoulder at Gale. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “Cap’s going to be just fine.”

“Good, good.” Jace nods too many times. “You know, I was afraid we’d fail. When we heard about the explosion at the Justice Building and security got so tight everywhere…” He lets out a low whistle. “It’s a good thing we have these uniforms. No one’s touched us since.”

“Yeah, that,” Beetee speaks up. “Where _did_ you get them from? We spent a few weeks trying to pin down a small enough patrol to ambush without alerting anyone else. You kids, though…” He shakes his head, deciding against whatever it is he was planning to say, and looks back down at his radio.

“Oh yeah, that,” Jace says, nodding again. “Well, we couldn’t have done it without your help! Apparently some people have heard of you, and they offered to help once they figured out we were here to infiltrate the Justice Building-”

“Wait, what?” Beetee forgets his radio again. “Some people? You mean _here_?”

“Yeah!” Jace grins, chest puffing out. “It was weird, but we were really lucky, sir. This one guy helped us get uniforms…I don’t know how he managed it, though, he just walked right up to them and demanded for three. Just for us, sir!”

I watch the color drain from Beetee’s face as he tries to wrap his mind around what Jace is saying. “What guy? What was his name?”

“I don’t know,” Jace says, grin sliding off his face immediately. His posture straightens, like he’s suddenly aware of something previously unknown to him. He claps a hand to his forehead. “Damn, he never gave us a name or anything. Just said we should just take these and look for you guys in the tunnels. I was on my way, at the bistro you guys were hiding at, and then I found you after nearly being killed by a flying axe.”

I snort. “That was me.”

“Oh. Well, I mean, it’s okay. You didn’t know.” Jace looks at me, a little expectantly but otherwise with a smile as he plays it off as a total accident. “So anyway, that’s how I found you guys.” He grins at Beetee. “You guys have really got it together.”

Beetee exchanges glances with me.

“Jace!” Cat calls from the far end of the office. It is perhaps the only time I ever hear her speak with any kind of emotion. “Come over here and check your gear.”

“Oh, right!” He jumps to his feet and takes off. “Gimme a sec!”

“It can’t be,” Beetee whispers with face awash with horror. “No one else knew about us – not _here_. We’ve been under the radar for as long as we’ve been here.”

I can think of nothing to say, and simply press my lips into a tight line. Then the radio speaks, slicing through the tension-filled silence with finesse like a knife through butter.

“ _Good afternoon, listeners! We’ve got some troubling reports today – very, very troubling indeed. According to the authorities, several districts, like District 7 and 12, have suffered lockdowns at the order of the President herself. Some people say it’s because of a rising epidemic, though others whisper of…rebellion,_ ” the radio host’s voice takes on a conspiratorial edge, probably trying to draw in his listeners. “ _We’ve heard numerous reports, also, of Katniss Everdeen moving across the country. Now, I don’t like to assume, but rebellion and this particular girl most certainly do go hand in hand-”_

I snap to attention, and Beetee meets my gaze in grim silence. “District 7,” he says stiffly. “They know.”

“- _and there are some linking the Justice Building incident to her, though I honestly don’t see how that’s possible. We do want to stress that these are all just merely rumors, and our lovely little Mockingjay is probably still safely nestled in her home, recovering like the rest of us. Next up, we’ll be taking a look at our President’s latest policies regarding taxation and our children’s education. And now, the weather._ ”

The word _Mockingjay_ stands out like a sore thumb in the midst of the host’s rambles, a terribly displaced word, more of an insult than a title at this point. _The Mockingjay died with the war, but Katniss is alive._ A profound difference that many should be grasping, but aren’t, for one reason or another. The word Mockingjay makes me feel something other than anxiety, something strange and unknowable at this point.

Beetee switches the radio off with a quick hand, pale-faced. He looks at me with real fear in his eyes, a fear I think I’m beginning to feel in the deepest reaches of my gut.

* * *

When the sun sinks into the distant horizon, swallowed up by the sea, I help Gale to his feet. Plutarch assembles the teams that will move independently of each other, but stay in direct contact through radio: Gale, Beetee and Jace form a team while Plutarch, Cat, Weyland and I form another. Jace seems unreasonably happy at the chance to defend his ailing Captain, much to Gale’s chagrin. Cat and Weyland, however, are both somber, exhibiting what I feel is the appropriate expression for such an occasion. 

“That axe is not going to help against bullets,” Cat says, looking very different with her hair tied up in a tight bun. She hands me a pistol, eyes fixed on me, again, with the same bored look. “Take it.”

“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t have the patience.” What I really mean is that I don’t have the skill, but the less Cat knows, the better.

She takes my word for it, though there is a shadow of doubt in her eyes, and turns away to hand it back to Weyland. The stoic soldier gives her a curt nod and holsters it. It is at this point that I realize that I haven’t heard Weyland speak once, though it’s not a cause for immediate concern or worry. My only goal in mind is the hovercraft and leaving the city. I try not to think about the actual process of acquiring one, and concentrate on the present.

We enter the elevator and descend to ground floor. Just across the street are two hovercraft ports, and about a dozen soldiers guard the streets. Searchlights dot the road separating us from our means of escape.

It looks to be a minefield, from where I’m standing. As we take cover in the shadows, I glance to my right and catch Beetee’s eye.

“Beetee, use those grenades. I don’t care how fucked up they are,” I say in a low growl. “If we’re stuck, use them.”

Beetee nods and steels himself, looking ahead.

“Alright,” Plutarch says. “Let’s move. Our team will take point.”

And then, just like that, the game of cat and mouse reaches the peak of its crescendo.

* * *

I’m not sure who takes the first shot, but Cat and Weyland are throwing themselves in front of us to return fire. It is then that I notice how Cat moves with undaunted grace, her feet barely touching the ground as she advances. It makes me think that her name was given for this reason alone; I watch with renewed interest as she deftly drops into a roll and stops just behind the barricade we’re taking cover with, crouching down beside me. 

We enter a deadlock for a few seconds as bullets whizz over our heads, cutting through the air with a whistle. I begin to feel the redundant weight of my axe.

Jace, Gale and Beetee are not too far off, with Jace shooting as carelessly and wildly as his captain had in the tunnels before. Weyland seems to notice this as well and grimaces, but says nothing and tosses a grenade over his head. Soldiers’ screams are cut short by the deafening explosion.

“An opening! Cat!” I hear Jace scream himself hoarse over the sound of profound gunfire. “Take it!”

Cat turns to the rest of us. “Go. I’ll stay with them and clear out the rest.”

Weyland’s eyes widen by a fraction, and he makes a noise that comes deep from within his throat. “No. You stay with us-”

“Weyland Strauss, I _don’t_ have time for this," she hisses, "Our captain is injured, so get to the hovercraft and prepare the ship.” Cat’s eyes flash dangerously and it does more than her words; Weyland presses his lips into a thin line, holding back his protests. Then he gestures to Plutarch and I to follow before standing up to vault over the barricade. We follow closely, every step I take an echo of the pounding in my chest.

Weyland comes to a stop, just at the loading ramp, and waves at us to get inside. The pistol in his hand glints under the searchlight that swallows him in white light. For a moment, I think he looks invincible, under the unbreakable hard light, until his hand is blown off and the gun falls to the ground with a clatter. He opens his mouth, eyes shut tight in agony, but it is not his scream I hear. Cat launches herself over the barricade where Jace’s team is hiding and sticks a bullet in the back of the soldier who presumably shot Weyland.

In her agitation, she doesn’t see the guns all turning away from us, from Jace as he gets to his feet, shouting her name with such an urgency that resonates deeply inside me.

Gale, supported by Beetee, gets to his feet and yells for her to _get down_ , but she stubbornly races for Weyland, whom Plutarch has already grabbed and is dragging up the hovercraft ramp.

The shots ring out, clear in the stillness of the night, and I watch Beetee toss his grenade, the red light blinking angrily. Cat is almost nearing the hovercraft when she suddenly twists in mid-step as a bullet finds its spot in her leg, just above her knee, and falls to the ground. In the harsh light, I can see the crimson liquid blooming where she’s hit. I quickly move, reaching for her, but someone stops me at the last second. My fingertips brush against her shoulder for only half a second. _Fuck!_

“Get down, damn you!” A familiar, low voice takes me by surprise, and so do the arms that wrap around my waist. In a matter of seconds, I’m being hauled up the ramp.

Beetee’s grenade bursts, and everything flashes blue for a moment. I think I hear the sizzle of flesh, but I can’t be sure because I’m writhing in the man’s grasp and screaming for him to let go, all too aware of who he is.

“Let go of me, damn it!”

“Fine, if that’s how you thank people for savin’ your life!”

I fall to the cold surface with a crash. Without missing a beat, I scramble for my axe and ready myself, looking into the face of the Brett Winston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have written the radio segment with Cecil in mind....


	26. Departure, Part 4

_“He’ll be there, if I’m right about this,” Beetee warns in a low voice, pulling me back by the arm. Plutarch’s waiting for us, along with the three young soldiers, but the insistence in Beetee’s voice gives me pause. “Brett.”_

_I turn my head to find a face full of apprehension. “You really think he’s a traitor, don’t you?”_

_“I don’t want to think it, or believe it,” Beetee says with a huff. “But if it comes to that, then we have to be prepared.”_

_I think of Brett’s last words, from before._ That’s why I’m here. To make sure nothing like the Games happen ever again. _I turn these words over and over in my head, trying to find some sort of hidden meaning, something I missed that he was implying. It certainly makes a little sense, now that Beetee’s insisting on following his suspicion, but what are the odds that someone like Brett would be as crazy as someone like Paylor?_

_“Alright,” I say quietly, nodding. “What are you thinking?”_

_“If he’s one of them,” Beetee grinds his words out with contempt, “then he’ll be waiting. He’ll be watching us. And then he’ll come to finish the job. I’m just throwing it out here, but there’s a chance he’ll try to gain our trust somehow, maybe save one of our hides when things get too heated.” Something hardens behind Beetee’s eyes. “But we can’t let him. The moment we see him, we have to kill him. He was supposed to die in that Justice Building. And the entire operation went by too fast, like the guards were_ letting _you through the front door. It all makes sense now, you know?”_

_“I know.” I feel Beetee release his grip on me. “First chance I get, Beetee. I promise. I’ll stick an axe in his head.”_

* * *

“You’re not really planning to kill me, are you?” Brett’s palms spread outwards. “Look, it’s me. Winston.” An odd smile forms on his lips. 

“How did you survive?” Plutarch asks, crouched beside a half-conscious Weyland, who is murmuring something to himself while struggling to raise his remaining hand. The stub where his hand used to be is dripping with blood, all over the shiny surface of the hovercraft’s loading bay floor and his uniform.

Brett doesn’t take his eyes off me. He answers with practiced serenity, “I took a leap of faith.”

“Yeah, off nine storeys,” I say, struggling to keep my composure. The air is growing heavy, and judging by the look on Plutarch’s face, he feels it too. “Gotta have bones of steel to survive a drop like that.”

“Oh, but I do. Do you believe me?” Brett pulls off the glove from his right hand, offering his palm to me. “Come on, Mason. Don’t be shy.”

The offer sparks real curiosity in me, and I struggle to keep myself where I am with my axe still raised. The explosion had been genuine, with half the Justice Building falling apart the moment we hit the basement level. _He was supposed to die._

At my hesitation Brett retracts his hand. His smile evaporates. That’s when I notice that he’s not looking at me, and he’s looking at someone who’s scrambling up the ramp from behind. Jace comes to a stop beside me, pistol raised in shaky hands.

“It’s you!” Jace says, lower lip quivering with horror. “You’re the one who gave us those suits.”

“Yeah, and this is all the thanks I get,” Brett gestures to the gun in Jace’s hands with a contemptuous sneer. “Everyone here seems to have a streak of ungratefulness, don’t they?” Jace flinches, and Brett returns his attention to me, intent in his gaze. “So, is this what it’s come to, Mason? You’re finally gonna make that axe useful.”

“How long?” I ask, curling my fingers around the handle a little tighter. “How long have you been working for Paylor?”

“How long? Well, since she came into power.” Brett reaches behind him and fishes out a combat knife from its holster, bringing the blade close to his fingers. “That was the part I didn’t tell you, of course. After my brother died in the Games, I dared to fight first. This was way before District 13…” I watch with morbid fascination as the blade sinks into his flesh, a bloom of red appearing at the tip of his finger. “I refused to put my name in for the Reaping. I was scared, you see…and angry.”

He pauses, looking up briefly to make sure my gaze is where he wants it to be before continuing the blade’s slow descent down the length of his finger.

“I fought back. The Peacekeepers made an example out of me, and broke every bone in my body.”

He twists the blade suddenly and pulls it back up, ripping off his finger in its entirety with the sickening sound of tearing flesh. The bone is left intact, though drenched in blood, and my stomach lurches at the sight. Jace pales entirely and backs up a little, his gun lowering by a few degrees. As if merely wiping a tiny stain of juice on his shirt, Brett fishes out a white handkerchief and cleans the blood from his finger’s bone, leaving behind a silvery, metallic appearance to it.

Brett brandishes it like a weapon, waving it in front of our faces with a manic gleam in his eyes.

“See this? Paylor gave me back my life,” Brett says breathlessly. His eyes begin to water not from emotion but from what I suspect is the blood loss and pain. _Good, at least he can still feel pain._ “She gave me power. And gifted me with her worldview. I thought you’d understand me, Mason, when I said I’d do anything to make sure the Games would never come back. It’s precisely because people like Snow are greedy for power and position that he turned Panem into hell on earth. They clamor and climb over each other to get to the top, never once caring about what it’s going to do to the rest of the world. It’s people like them that get our loved ones killed. People out of control.”

“And you think cracking down on every citizen in Panem is going to change this?” Plutarch finally finds his voice to speak, and Brett turns to him, momentarily distracted. Plutarch’s words seem to ignite in him a fury that shows in the shudder of his body, biceps clenching with furious tension.

“I think it _will_ , Mister Heavensbee. Because with equality and control, who’s going to rise up? Who would _dare_?”

Plutarch’s eyes meet mine as he answers, a glimmer of acknowledgement in them. “The ones who value freedom, it seems. In their heart, their mind and their bodies.”

It is brief, but I see it: he is giving me permission to attack.

I take a step forward and bring the blade down in a swift arc, hitting Brett’s shoulder. The giant howls in pain and twists, reaching with one long arm to grab me by the wrist. In the mist of rage and agony he flings me with one mighty tug, and I fly straight out of the hovercraft and end up tumbling down the ramp. Every part of my body screams with the impact and I roll over in pain, only to see Gale, Cat and Beetee running towards me. With Gale and Cat’s injuries, however, their speed is cut in half and Brett reaches me first. He clamps a hand down on my neck and lifts me from the ground like a ragdoll, his expression growing livid as I kick wildly at his face. The axe is still attached to his shoulder, but the blade’s barely halfway through, probably hindered by his steel bones. He resembles a monster more than a man at this point.

“I thought you’d get me,” Brett says in soft menace. “You of all people. But you’re just like them, aren’t you? You hate the idea of peace because you’re greedy. You want _freedom_ , you want to do whatever you want…” His grip tightens, working to crush my windpipe. I open my mouth to gasp for air, but his hold on me is impossible to overcome. “That’s the poison that will destroy Panem, Johanna. I thought you knew that.” His voice wavers with genuine sadness before he brings himself back to his rage, and finishes the crushing of my neck.

I wince in pain and feel the tears spring from behind closed eyelids. For a brief moment there is nothing, in the blackness of my mind, and I wonder if this is death. Then I see Katniss, running to me in the darkness, screaming my name like it’s the only thing she knows. I smell the scent of pine, I think I hear the whistle of an arrow slicing through the air. A fitting end, I think, because all my thoughts are of her, and I would prefer not to die thinking of anything else.

Brett lets out a scream, somewhere far away, and I feel myself being tossed away, carried by winds and waves and the stars. I drift further and further, until I hear her voice.

“Johanna!”

I land on the ground with a thud, and I can’t bring myself to breathe.

 _Hell is cruel,_ I think my last thoughts, _for letting me believe you’d follow me into the dark._

_Please, Katniss, whatever you do..._

Then, everything stops.

_...don't you dare follow me here._


	27. Finnick

I open my eyes and see Finnick sitting beside me on the bench. We’re in the middle of nowhere, really, but he feels so real when I bury my head in his chest and cry. His hand rests on the back of my head, and I hear him shushing me in that soft, gentle whisper, the kind he’d always speak to me with whenever I was down with a panic attack. It works, it does, and I wonder if I’ve only just woken up from a long nightmare.

“No, you’re sleeping right now,” he answers my unspoken thought.

“Then…what am I doing here? What is this place?” I look up at him and savor the sight of a friend long gone; his eyes, green like the ocean, soothe me in ways I can’t even properly describe and his smile, his _damnable smile_ , as if the world’s alright.

“This place?” He looks around, his golden hair glistening in the sunlight that is coming from nowhere. So much like an angel, I decide. He looks back at me, his knowing smile more pronounced. “A turning point.”

“I have to go back?”

“Dying is a bright white light, and you walking towards it.” Finnick’s eyes flicker with emotion. “But that’s for everyone else. To me, dying is never seeing Annie again. And that’s why I fight, J. That's why I fought," his voice wavers. "To make sure I see her again. So that I could live and not die.” He kisses me on the forehead, his lips lingering for as long as he can manage. Then he pulls away and looks deep into my eyes, a twinkle in his own. “Wake up and live, Johanna. She’s waiting for you. Don’t be a bitch and make her wait a second longer.”

“Finn,” my voice cracks with emotion, as I pull at his arms, unwilling to let him go. “Who were you talking about, that night you said I was scared of someone?”

He chuckles, a lighthearted, melodious sound. “God, you’re terrified right now, aren’t you?”

“Answer the fucking question, baby face,” I attempt to sound annoyed, but it comes off as a pathetic whine.

“Some other time, Johanna.” He smiles sadly. “Don’t make her wait.”

We get to our feet and he carries me on his back, walking and walking until we reach a cliff formation. We stand at the top, overlooking the ocean below.

“I love a good swim,” Finnick says, content. “Maybe I’ll catch the waves after you do.”

“What?”

“Tell Annie I’m still crazy about her," he says, like he doesn't even hear the alarm in my voice. "But you probably shouldn’t use the word ‘crazy’.”

Then he tips me over the edge, and I am falling. I fall for a long time.


	28. Deliverance

 

I open my eyes for the second time.

 _Not dead_ , I think to myself, wiggling my toes a little. _Not dead…_ The image of Finnick’s smile is still burned into my head. _Wake up and live, Johanna._ His words push me into motion; aware of the cast around my neck, I fumble around for a good grip on the side of my bed and struggle to pull myself into a sitting position. I wince when a tiny prick of pain erupts at the back of my neck, and make a mental note not to make any sudden movements with my head.

Gingerly, I twist my body and let my bare feet touch the ground. The hovercraft shudders and groans and I freeze, not daring to move, but the turbulence soon passes and I am back on my feet. I take a few steps, then I take a few more, and I’m relieved to see that the neck injury hasn’t paralyzed me. I walk towards the door, intending to leave the medical bay, when it slides open with a hiss and-

“Katniss,” I whisper.

“Johanna,” she says my name in such a small voice. I wildly think about a night badly spent in a half destroyed house, being so attracted to a half destroyed girl.

"Can I kiss you?" I ask.

"What's the alternative?"

I sway on my feet for a second, feeling the world shift. I reach out to brush my thumb against her face, against a new scar I had never seen before, and I feel the slight shiver that comes from her. She looks so different and yet so much like what I remember. My heart begins to beat in my ears.

"Forget it," she murmurs. "There's no alternative."

She touches my hand with hers, lightly, before she decides to push forward with a kiss. The action is gentle but it knocks me back anyway; I stumble but she catches me quickly, a hand on my back and another holding my arm. A sharp pain shoots down my spine and I let out a breathy laugh – I don’t care much at this point – and wrap my arms around her neck. She’s looking at me with these eyes, stormy gray and terrified, and all I can think about is how wonderful she looks right now, even in her disheveled state. Her brown hair is tied in a loose braid, almost as if she just did a quick job of it without caring and never touching it since. I lean in, pressing myself against her and she responds with another kiss, so soft and so apprehensive, like she’s afraid of hurting me in this state, but I don’t care, I don’t care – I was dead and now I’m alive…

She holds my face in her hands like it’s something to behold and comes close, until our mouths are almost touching. I breathe her in, pine and sweat and summer. The morphling doesn't help to keep my composure. I breathe until I grow lightheaded, and I have to hold on to her for support. She whispers against my ear, lips burning hot, “You came back.”

She refers to my near death, this I know full well. I shudder with a silent sob at the thought of Finnick, but also of how I’m so relieved not to be dead. She feels this and responds with a fluttery kind of kiss against my jaw. I summon the strength to speak to her, my voice unsteady.

“I told you,” I murmur, closing my eyes. Another kiss, so close to my mouth. “I told you so, Brainless.”

Katniss sighs against my lips, pressing her forehead against mine. “Good,” she says quietly. “Good.” It is all she says and I just think about how right she is – how _good_ this is, how good _everything_ is.

A strange tightness grips my chest as she strokes the hair from my face. I begin to cry right into her palm and she just holds me until it’s over, and we don’t speak of it again. She just locks her arms around me and kisses my hair, and for the first time I feel safe, bathed in white light and her embrace.

Then she murmurs against my ear again. Simple words, really, but so unexpected, so out of nowhere that I begin to cry again. I’m crying so damn much but I don’t have the energy to feel ashamed, because she keeps repeating these stupid words over and over again and they catch on to me like oil on fire, and I’m breathing in not just the scent of her but her words that burn and burn and burn until the uncertainty in my mind turns to ash and there’s nothing but me and her, like it was always meant to be this way.

“I love you.”

At the back of my mind, Finnick’s chuckle reaches me.


	29. The Victor of District 12

Beetee’s radio, as it turns out, doubles as a way of communicating with their fellow insurgents. The frequency he picked up while we were still in the city belongs to a secure channel where people play off important intel briefings as regular shows on air. He explains this, and many other things to us – that is, Gale, Katniss, the three cadets and I – as the hovercraft is en route to another district in Panem that isn’t under complete lockdown yet: District 4.

Gale and his charges take the news well, surprisingly optimistic despite the injuries they’ve acquired thus far. Gale’s arm is still immobilized to make sure his splintered shoulder blade heals adequately before he starts reusing his good arm again; Cat begrudgingly accepts putting her left leg in a cast until we arrive at District 4; Weyland, with help from Beetee, prepares to replace his lost hand with a prosthetic one – it seems, with a vast mind like Beetee’s, even scavenging parts from onboard the ship goes a long way. Jace remains the most energetic of the group and he runs around with a light that never seems to go out in his eyes.

“He’s an idiot,” Cat says simply, when we’re sitting around in the mini-conference room later one day, discussing their squad dynamics with a smug Gale sitting at the head of the table. Cat catches her captain’s eye and clears her throat, adding, “But he’s alright in a firefight.”

Weyland’s mouth pulls into a faint smile – the most emotion anyone’s ever gotten out of him since we met. Gale leans back against his chair, sharing a similar expression. “In any case, he made a good call,” Gale says, nodding. “We need more guys like him.”

At this, I snort. Katniss glances at me, curious, while Gale just rolls his eyes. Since the removal of my neck brace, I’ve been in a friendlier mood than I’ve ever been – I absolutely resent Gale’s haughty notion that it’s because Katniss is around that I’ve entered a seemingly permanent state of passivity – but it doesn’t mean that I’ve lost my touch when it comes to a little mockery now and then. If anything, Cat responds positively to this and I see a faint shine of approval in her otherwise empty blue eyes.

Beetee and Plutarch enter minutes later, after our conversations fade into soft whispers to the people sitting closest to us – with the stark exception of Weyland, who maintains his composure with the air of a practiced diplomat – and provide updates to our location, the number of days left before we arrive at District 4, and other news about Paylor’s movements, if any. The drab mood of serious talk wears me down and I slide down my seat a little.

“Nearly every district’s got all their citizens wearing the tracking devices on their ankles,” Beetee says, while Plutarch stands aside in straight-backed silence. “Like back in the city, the soldiers use the Justice Building as means of a main base, if you will. We’re assuming everything’s there – communications, surveillance, all that. Plus, more soldiers have come in since our little fiasco back in the city. So far, they haven’t made an attempt on the resistance effort holed up there, but there have been some troubling reports.” He pauses, gaze flickering in my direction. “We have reason to believe that Paylor’s sending in more men like Brett Winston – willing experiment subjects – to enforce the army as lieutenants and commanders. They’re easy to spot – big, burly guys that don’t do much but brood as they parade through town in a smart dress uniform. We’ve received intel on the big boss in District 4, a man named James Wicker.”

On the screen, surveillance images of a tall, blonde man appears, resembling Brett more than I’d like to admit: the hard crease of his brow, the dark shadows underneath his eyes and the exact same build – it’s almost like Paylor’s creating an army of these men of steel, luring them in as she manipulates their emotional state, their histories, all so they believe in what she’s doing. Our biggest hurdle to overcoming her tight grip on Panem, it seems. My stomach lurches at the thought of facing another steel giant; my neck tingles with the phantom grip of Brett’s hands around it, fingers curling until the air stops entering and the entire world goes to shit in my mind.

A hand touches my shoulder lightly and I turn to see that it’s Katniss, concern etched all over her face. “You okay?” she whispers, leaning in. “You’re a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, feeling indignation bubble in my chest.

She quirks her eyebrows like she can’t quite believe me, but turns back to the screen despite this, though there’s a sliver of disapproval in her eyes that I don’t miss.

“The moment we hit District 4, it’s going to be another long walk through hell,” Beetee continues, drawing me out of my reverie. “To make things easier, we’ll be dropping some of you on the field first. The roof of the Justice Building will be our drop zone. Cut off communications first with the disruptor device by sticking it to the antenna, and then work your way down. Once you shut down the shields to the holding cells, clean out remaining resistance. The rest of the town will be handled by our guys already on the ground – we’re just hitting the part that hurts the most.”

“So who’s going?” Gale asks, leaning forward in his seat.

Beetee glances at Plutarch, who gives him the green light with a nod of his head. The little electronics expert looks back at us, adjusting his glasses. “We’ve decided that a three-man team will suffice. Katniss, Cat and Jace will-”

I sit forward, on the edge of my seat. “Make room for one more.” I am almost certain that I can feel the heat of Katniss’ stare burning a hole in the side of my face.

“Johanna,” Beetee sighs, without heat. “Your neck only just healed. There’s no way we’re letting you strain yourself and break your spine because you think you’re ready for combat again.”

“Really,” I carve my words out through gritted teeth. “I can do this.”

Beetee glares – actually glares – at me, setting his jaw. Plutarch steps in with a languid wave of his hand. “No. My decision is final. I’ll not risk compromising the mission just because you promise success on a whim. I would rather see you healed-”

“I’m capable,” I get to my feet, “and you know it.”

“You can participate in the next operation.” Plutarch’s voice is quiet, but I know he’s exerting his full authority. “These are missions of utmost importance. Just because you see you have a personal stake here doesn’t mean you’ll follow orders without question – if I recall,” his eyes grow dark with bitterness, “you nearly jeopardized your own life _and ours_ the moment Captain Hawthorne took a bullet to his shoulder. What more, then, will you do if I allow your lack of discipline to follow the team to the field _this_ time?”

Gale shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Weyland makes a strange face as he glances at Plutarch. Beetee looks away. Cat is the only one who watches me now, curious and puzzled. I curl my hands into fists, nails clamping down so hard on the inside of my palm that I feel pain and blood welling beneath them.

“Johanna.” I’m surprised to hear the hardness in Katniss’ tone and she disarms me of my anger for a moment. “Stop it.” Her fingers brush against my shoulder, but the abruptness of her words, the _absurdity_ , makes me recoil from her touch. The same indignation returns in full force and it propels me from the room, to fume in peace in the stillness of one of the crew’s quarters.

I plop onto the bed and lie on my back, glaring an imaginary hole into the ceiling until the door slides open and Katniss enters, with all the rage of a firestorm contained in one unwavering gaze. By the time she reaches me, I’ve already let my own anger melt away into nonchalance, so when she pulls me to my feet and finds no resistance there, she just asks me with a mad look in her eyes, “Do you actually want to _die_?”

“Stupid question.” It really is.

She takes a deep breath before speaking again. “Well, then, you should just stay here. Where you won’t die.”

I laugh, tipping my head back a little. She watches me in absolute disdain as I steady myself and regain my composure, though I’m still giggling a little by the time I answer her. “Oh, that’s rich, Katniss- really!” I turn my back to her, the grin on my face transforming into a heavy frown. “Because I’m the complete image of a fucking damsel in distress.”

“I didn’t say that,” Katniss says tightly. “Don’t be so unreasonable.”

“Right, _unreasonable_ ,” I repeat, spitting the word back out like acid. “Like it’s so easy for me to watch you get marched off like another pawn in their games.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re lying.” I look over my shoulder. “You don’t believe that.”

“Then what,” she grinds out with effort, “am I supposed to believe in?”

“I don’t know,” I bite back, turning on my heels to face her again. “Anything. Anything but believing that it’s your responsibility to obey and do whatever they ask you to.”

She jerks back a little as if stung by something in my words. She refuses to meet my eyes when she asks, “Then what do you believe in?”

The anger inside me dries up by the time I touch the flat of my palm against her cheek. My hand slides to catch her by the chin and I force her to look at me. She complies and she looks at me expectantly, lips parted as though waiting for me to fill that space with my mouth. Desire seizes my entire body and I move without thinking, only with the purpose of claiming what I want.

“I believe you didn’t come here to fight a war again,” I murmur, leaning in to press my lips against her throat, where I feel the vibration of her hum, a deep, sincere sound of pleasure.

“They need – to win,” she protests, though her voice lacks the strength to convince me.

“Fuck them.” I slide my hand up her shirt, pushing her up against the door in one swift motion. I press one knee against her crotch and I feel her body rippling with little earthquakes. “Tell me what _you_ want. We’re not tributes, Katniss, we’re _people_.” I nip at her neck as she sighs, helpless against the pressure I’m putting between her legs. “Do you want to play their game? Or do you want to _win_?”

A deep, guttural sound comes right from her throat in response. She seizes my shoulders and shoves me back onto the bed with such a sudden force that I am momentarily paralyzed. I barely register the effect my words have on her before she straddles my hips, the heat in her eyes and kisses driving me into a place between arousal and fear.

Somehow, in between biting and kissing we manage to divest each other of our clothes. As if to return the favor or exact some form of vengeance, Katniss presses her knee between my thighs and I squirm, a little breathless from the way she’s moving against me. With nothing to hold on to, I latch on to her back and dig my fingers in when she begins to use more force. She lets out a pained sigh when my nails scrape against her flesh, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate; she moves downwards, leaving a trail of kisses that burn even underneath my skin, right in my bones, until she kisses me _there_ , tongue working so furiously that I think I’m beginning to catch a fever.

I arch my back wantonly when she hits the right spot. I say her name in a way I didn't think was possible, and she seems to like it, lifting her head with a glint in her eyes. She moves, once again, to straddle me and, regarding me for one short moment, moves her hips in a lazy, circular motion. It drives me crazy and I don't want her to stop so I move my own in response, but she clamps down on my neck with one hand with renewed certainty in her eyes, as if somehow bothered by the attention I’m giving her. And there, I see it.

The face of a victor, basking in glory.

“Katniss…”

“Please,” she says, her voice husky. “Please just shut up for a moment.”

I don’t know what else to do, disarmed by the authority in her voice, so I just nod. She releases my neck and sighs, as if relieved. “Good,” she says, assertive, and returns to put her face between my thighs, working until I’m lightheaded and dizzy with ecstasy and I’m crying for more, silenced only by her repeated orders. I bite down so hard on my lip when the orgasm rips through me that the coppery taste of blood spills into my mouth.

She notices this and moves to crush her lips against mine, and she presses against me with such urgency, such fury that all I can think of doing is doing _nothing_ and just relishing the way she commands flame and electricity in the slightest caress of her fingertips, the thought of _my_ scars on her back and no one else’s and the way she holds me close, face buried in the crook of my neck. It’s perfect, I think. So very, very perfect.

Then she presses her lips against my ear, murmuring in a voice sapped of strength, “I win. I _win_.”

I close my eyes and slide a hand between her legs. Her breath hitches, and I smile.

“Good answer. Now it’s _your_ turn to shut up.”


	30. Reclamation, Part 1

Katniss accompanies Gale to the medical bay the next day, their friendship renewing as surely as his shoulder is healing. I give them some privacy and watch them by the window, my eyes following the way Katniss brushes her fingers over Gale’s back, probably tracing the scars he’d gotten so long ago. Whipped by Peacekeepers, Gale told me once, and the wounds were like fire on his back for weeks. 

_“It doesn’t matter though,” Gale says, staring off into the distance. “They don’t hurt as much as-”_

_“Inside,” I finish for him._

_He tips his bottle towards me, meeting my gaze. “Inside,” he agrees.  
_

I watch them speak, Gale’s face free of shadows for the first time in a long time and Katniss’ expression caught between relief and exasperation. Beetee mutters a quick hello to me before entering the bay, resembling a medic more than a tech expert. He works to the best of his abilities, though, and for that I have no complaints. At this rate, I’m going to have to come up with a better name for him than _Volts_.

Someone shuffles up beside me, her presence signaled by the heavy step of a limp, and stares straight ahead into the room where Beetee is forcing Katniss to stay put while he does a scan on Gale’s shoulders and arms.

“I watched her,” Cat says, never taking her eyes off Katniss. “Right until last year.”

“Bet it gave you quite the show.” I can’t seem to control the acid in my tone. “Did you enjoy it like you enjoyed mine?”

The only indication that I’m pissing her off is by the tiny twitch lips. The rest of her is the perfect portrait of a person eternally unimpressed with everything.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” she replies, voice never once betraying her emotions. “It didn’t seem like such a fun game. Everyone else around me thought it was the highest honor, though. I almost did, too.”

“So you’re from a Career district, then.” I glance at her. “You wanted your name called out?”

“For a moment.” Her eyes grow distant. “One shining moment. Then you threw an axe into my sister.”

Alarm ripples through me, and I stiffen. The memory of the pretty Career girl from District 1 – _Cashmere,_ I recall – comes back to me; the sound of my axe finding its spot in her chest, the way her eyes widen and her mouth falls open, the illusion shattering as her body breaks, truth spilling forth by way of her blood – truth that the Hunger Games are nothing but a lie, not some place you get to elevate yourself so that you might escape the touch of death because _no one_ -

“Don’t look so pale,” Cat mutters, finally looking over at me. She somehow manages to still look unimpressed, even though we’re discussing her dead siblings. “She asked for it. And so did Gloss.”

There’s no forgiveness in her eyes, but no judgment either. Just the same blank stare, the unwavering line of her lips and the calmness with which she speaks. The only way I can describe her is a husk – empty on the inside, scraped dry of humanity with nothing left to show for it, save for the one moment she threw her composure and well-being aside for Weyland just several days ago.

“But they – they were from home,” I hear myself say. “Family.”

Cat takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she turns her face away. “Yes,” she whispers, “they were. But they’re gone now. I can’t spend my entire life grieving.”

“No,” I agree with a slight nod, though I’m still a little unnerved at her aloofness. “You can’t.”

“And Katniss. She lost her sister too, didn’t she?” Cat lets out a sigh. “Not in the way I lost Cashmere, but…similar.”

“She did.” I swallow with effort. “And Peeta.”

Cat hums in mere acknowledgment, where there is supposed to be sympathy. I decide to look past her strangeness; sometimes grief brings about a deep transformation, but sometimes it just digs deep inside and takes everything. Blight’s words, as I recall, during the days of my Games where I was but a stubborn tribute and he was an equally stubborn mentor. I had been so determined to win back my life, only to have Snow take it all with a mere snap of his fingers, breaking me in like a horse that knew no loyalty, no discipline.

_Like hell I’m going to let Paylor bring us back down memory lane._

We stand there watching the goings-on inside the medical bay in silence, caught up in our own worlds. Some time later, when Beetee begins patching Gale up, Cat clears her throat, as if to remind me that she’s still here.

“You don’t want her to fight.” She skips over the subject of discussing dead loved ones with ease, without batting an eyelid. “Am I right?”

“What do you care what I think? What does anyone care?” I shrug off the returning unpleasantness from my last conversation with Plutarch. “I’m just a girl who can’t control her feelings.”

“Your feelings saved Captain Hawthorne.” She slowly meets my gaze, her lips tugging into a faint smile. “And her feelings saved you. I’d say feelings are a good thing.”

“A little bit ironic coming from you, don’t you think?” I smirk.

She shrugs, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “We’re all pretenders at one point or another.”

“So you’re pretending to be stone cold and fearless now?” I can’t resist the dig. “Is that it?”

Cat makes a strange sound – a laugh, I realize quickly. The idea that she has a sense of humor doesn’t register properly in my mind.

“I didn’t come here to discuss me,” she says after a while, smoothing the creases of her uniform like she does her emotions in one swift brush of a hand. “I came here to tell you that if you let Katniss go with us, I’d make sure she survives this round.”

“You—what?” I narrow my eyes, unable to understand. “Why would you do that?”

Cat’s gaze is still on the window and the room beyond. “We need her. So how about it? Can you trust me with that?”

“I don’t trust anyone that easily.” _The last time I did with a total stranger…_

Her tone hardens a little. “Then trust my ability to get the job done.”

“She’s not a job to be done with!” Rage fuels my movement; I curl my fingers around her collar and pin her against the far side of the room, up against the wall. Without even a flicker of fear in her eyes, Cat only tips her head to the side with a slight frown on her face, like she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. I tighten my grip on her. “She’s a _person_ with _family_ and a life to be had and-”

“Why don’t you just say it outright? She’s important to you.” Cat calmly latches her gloved hands around my wrists, still watching me with those empty eyes. A chill descends my spine. “I get it, Johanna. You shouldn’t assume I am beyond all that.”

I think of Weyland, and my grip softens a little.

“So don’t ask me to trust you,” I say through gritted teeth. “Make a promise. Then _keep it_. Show me you can actually do it.”

“Alright,” she says softly, nodding. “I promise.”

* * *

“What was that back there?” Katniss nudges me with her elbow. “You and that girl, outside.” 

“That? That was nothing.” I shrug. “She just said the wrong thing, that’s all.”

Katniss frowns at me. “And you decided to just ram her against the wall and strangle her,” she concludes in a measured tone. “Johanna.”

“Katniss.” I cock my head to the side, grinning at her. It’s hard not to tease her.

She rolls her eyes and takes my hand in hers, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. I turn my hand over and catch hers. “You never did tell me how you got around to getting to the city.”

Katniss shrugs. “They moved in more soldiers, landed a hovercraft in the square, I snuck on. Easy.”

“Easy,” I repeat, shaking my head. An edge comes into my voice. “And what if they found you? Did you ever think of that?”

“I was more preoccupied with the thought that you were in that Justice Building when it blew up, but yeah, maybe I should have given it some thought,” she says, words tempered with sarcasm and irritation. She looks away, exhaling heatedly.

“Hey.” I catch her by the chin and turn her back to me. “I’m not trying to make you feel like a fool.”

“I know,” she says evenly. “I guess I just wanted to get to you. I would’ve killed anyone to do it.” She shifts closer, towards me now, the undercurrent of viciousness in her voice sending shivers down my spine. She puts a hand to my face, knotting her fingers in my hair. “Anyone.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding slowly. I turn my face to kiss the inside of her palm. “I’d be dead without you, I hope you know that.”

“You’ve been through worse,” she says with a half-hearted laugh, referencing my days in the Capitol after the Quarter Quell. “And you held your own, way before I ever came into the picture.”

“No. Not like this,” I clasp my hand around hers. “ _Never_ like this.”

She nods, recognition in her eyes. Without waiting a second longer I lunge forward, sending us both crashing to the floor. The drumming of my pulse is impossible to stifle and I act unthinkingly, tapping on my base desires and biting down hard on her neck. Katniss stiffens beneath me, her gasp sharp and sudden, but she doesn’t push me off. If anything, she encourages me with a tug on my waist, and I break her skin.

I sit up and observe my handiwork and she just stares at me, breathless but expectant. Blood trickles down the curve of her neck, bright against her skin. I take my time and run my tongue against the inside of my teeth, tasting her blood.

“When you go out there,” I say calmly, wiping my lips to check if there’s any blood there, “Don’t think of anything but coming back to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmurs, pressing two fingers to the side of her neck, her eyes still fixed on me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Because if you die down there, I’ll destroy the entire country.” I lean over, pressing my mouth against the bite on her neck, running my tongue over the welt. She lets out a soft moan. I lift my head, briefly. “I mean it.”

She sighs, hands sliding up to hold my face. She looks at me with an odd smile on her lips, her face already flushed. “Is this your idea of being romantic?”

“Hmm,” I bend over and trail kisses along her jawline. “Do you like it?”

“I like _you_ , if that helps.”

“And I don’t not like you,” I answer, echoing her words from before. She glares at me, but I dispel her annoyance with a kiss.

“I like you a lot,” she continues, when I pull away. In one swift movement, she rolls over and pins me to the ground. “I like you more than a lot, Johanna. And I’m coming back for you.”

My heart takes a leap. She’s so beautiful when she’s so earnest, I think to myself. _Even if we’re about to fuck each other senseless._ “I know. I like you too. You’re the only one I like.”

“Johanna,” she urges, like she wants me to say something more, before pushing in with a rough kiss to the neck. I press my body against hers as my back arches, feeling her teeth grazing my skin like a predator preparing to finish the hunt. She says my name again, with reverence in her tone, and I feel my face flush underneath the warmth of her passion. 

I close my eyes as she nips at my flesh. I yelp when she fixes her teeth onto my neck. “Fuck, if _you_ aren’t a biter…”

“That’s payback,” she says, sitting up. “And also how I know you belong to me.” She gently rocks her hips against mine and I shudder under the pressure against my crotch. “You got that?”

“I belong to you,” I repeat, carrying the words inside me like a mantra. “Yeah, I like the sound of that.”

“Good.” She slides a hand up my shirt. “Good. Now show me you understand what I just said.”

Words begin to fail me, but it’s just as well – I do a lot better with action rather than with speech, after all.

* * *

Two days later we arrive at District 4. Katniss takes the chance to trim my hair, the night before their big drop on the Justice Building, and I sit still under her touch as she snips at the edges. I watch her from the mirror; her face is wound tight in concentration and she’s biting down hard on her lip, like she’s never handled anything else but the bow in her life and this is proving to be her most daunting task yet. 

She finishes, minutes later, and brushes a hand along the back of my neck to dust off the stray bits of hair. Her hand slides to grip my shoulder, and she looks right at my reflection, mouth pulling into a faint, satisfied smile. “Better.”

“I don’t see the difference,” I turn my head from side to side. “You sure it’s not just an excuse to touch me?”

Katniss rolls her eyes. “If I wanted to touch you, I wouldn’t even have to ask.”

“Oh, _yeah_. Because I’m that easy.”

“You are,” her eyes twinkle with amusement, “when you’re with me.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze before leaving my side. I get off my seat and follow her, all too aware of the seconds counting themselves off in my head until she gets off this ship. _Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock._

In the loading bay, Beetee prepares the three of them, handing them tiny radio transceivers and giving them a few minutes to get acquainted with how it works. Gale, Weyland and I sit on the sides, looking very much like three players being benched during a big game, except it’s not a game. Far from it. I give Cat a meaningful look when she looks my way, and she returns this with the slight tip of her head in acknowledgment.

“Alright,” Beetee checks the datapad in his hand. “We’re almost directly over the Justice Building. Remember the cloaking mechanism that’s part of your parachute. Everybody ready?”

Weyland gets to his feet and walks over to Jace’s side to offer them luck – at least, that’s what I _think_ he’s going to say. Despite the proximity I can hardly hear a word he says, though his lips are moving, like something out of a silent movie. I glance at Gale. “Is he always this quiet?”

Gale shrugs, leaning against the back of his seat. “I think so. He never speaks unless he has to.”

Weyland moves to pass Cat her helmet, though they don’t do much except look at each other. That’s the moment I see her mouth taking on an unpleasant curl, her hands going to his prosthetic hand and her eyes, lost and searching, meeting his. _We’re all pretenders at one point or another._

The loading ramp lowers itself, revealing the town by the sea below. I move to the edge, gripping a safety pole by the side, and take a look at District 4. I squint and manage to see the harbor, where there are more hovercrafts stationed than actual boats. The waves lap at the ports, almost angry in their movement, like they, too, hate the return the suffocating strangle of oppression.

For a fleeting moment I consider letting myself go, falling into the ocean in hopes of finding Finnick somewhere down below, enjoying a good swim like he’d told me he would. A far better place than this, I think to myself.

“He should be here with us.” Katniss’ voice stirs me from my trance. I turn to her, watching the wind whipping at her hair. Shame overcomes me and the thought of certain suicide evaporates, whisked away by the strong winds. “Finnick, I mean.”

“I know,” I respond, unable to meet her gaze. “He saved me, you know. Made me come back. Told me to wake up and live again.”

A gloved hand tilts my chin up. There’s a hint of curiosity in her gray eyes. “He told you to what?”

I shake my head. “No, never mind. We’ll talk more when we’re done here, okay?”

She frowns slightly, but nods. “Okay.”

“And Katniss?”

“Yeah?”

The words lump together in my throat. Despite the way we’ve eased into each other over the past few days, it’s still hard to articulate _everything_ to her. My knees buckle under the weight of her gaze, like I am everything she sees, but I hold myself together – for myself, and for her.

“Don’t make me wait too long.” It comes out sounding more like a plea than a firm instruction, and I wonder just how far I’ve fallen.

She doesn’t answer me immediately, though her lips threaten me with a knowing smile. Then she nods, and her voice is warm, like a life-giving fire in the middle of a winter storm.

“Never.”

I watch her leap off the ramp, shrinking and shrinking until I don’t see her anymore and the ramp lifts, blocking District 4 from view entirely, the finality of the metal clang signaling the beginning of a very long day.


End file.
